


Sherlock & the Illustrious Client

by Soledad



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon Divergence, Clever Mary, F/M, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Non-canon Mary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-11
Updated: 2016-12-02
Packaged: 2018-08-30 11:17:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 53,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8530933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soledad/pseuds/Soledad
Summary: A modern retelling of the classic ACD story, with a mighty twist. Set after Sherlock's return. Beta read by the generous Linda Hoyland, thanks.





	1. Prologue: Blog entry 2024

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
PROLOGUE – BLOG ENTRY OF DR. JOHN H. WATSON**

**April 19th 2014**

It has been a long time since I last revisited any old cases solved with Sherlock. The current ones – and my daily work as a full-time GP – give me enough stuff to blog about. And I’m not getting any younger.

The case of the illustrious client, however, is one I have hoped to be able to share for the last ten years, cause it was one of the most exciting and dangerous ones I assisted Sherlock with since his return. For ten years, I’ve been emphatically discouraged from doing so by a certain _minor government official_ whom we won’t name here (hint: he’s Sherlock’s overbearing, meddlesome brother). Until now.

“I guess it won’t hurt anyone now,” he commented the last time I asked. “In fact, shoving things into the right light may even be advantageous for the people involved, now that they’ve managed to put some emotional distance between themselves and the unfortunate events.”

Don’t be put out by the stilted phrasing; that’s how he always speaks. And yes, he always pronounces the word _emotional_ as if it were something dirty. It goes with being a Holmes, I guess. The point is, I finally can publish the full story that has been slumbering on my HD for a decade – now that the person most likely to be hurt by it is dead.

You might remember the case itself. The tabloids were full of the murder process of Baron Adelbert Gruner in Vienna, his planned marriage to Miss Violet Merville after his unexpected acquittal and his no less surprising and gruesome end. Hell, it overshadowed even the circus around Sherlock and his return from the dead for a while! There was much wild guessing, there were – supposedly – scandalous photos and videos, a murderous attack on Sherlock himself… and not a quarter of all this was actually true. 

So, as Sherlock’s annoying brother said, setting all those false rumours straight may be good for everyone. Especially as we all know just how reliable the sensationalist press is – NOT!

Yes, I do still have issues with them, so what?

Personally, it will be good to remember a time when Mary was still with me, although it wasn’t necessarily an easy time for us. I still miss her very much.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

 

Finally! I was waiting for years to find out what happened! 

Molly Hooper, 19 April 13:46

*  
Didn’t realise you were still updating your blog, John. I thought you’ve abandoned it after Mary… well, it’s good to see you back.

Mike Stamford, 19 April 13:56

*  
Please, answer your phone!

Harry Watson, 19 April 14:07

*  
What’s this thing exactly? I remember having seen something on the news, back then. Was that when Sherlock was attacked and nearly died?

Bill Murray, 20 April 10:16

*  
Seriously, John, is it all right to post this now? I don’t want you to get in trouble!

Harry Watson, 20 April 12:37

*  
No need to panic. As I said, I’ve cleared it with Mycroft and got the nod. I’ll write up what happened but I want to make sure nobody will be embarrassed. Give me a couple of days.

John Watson 20 April 13:10

*  
You can’t just leave us hanging like that!! Tell us what happened!

Harry Watson, 20 April 13:12

*  
Oh, yes, do tell us how Sherlock did it!

Mike Stamford, 20 April 14:25

*  
And will you just answer your phone!!! I don’t want you to mope alone about Mary!

Harry Watson, 29 April 22:01

*  
When are we going to find out more?

Bill Murray, 30 April 19:46


	2. Meeting in the Sauna

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few lines of dialogue are borrowed from “The Adventure of the Illustrious Client”. The _Babur_ is a really existing Indian restaurant in London.  
>  **Timeframe:** After Sherlock’s return. John has been married to Mary for about a year and moved out of 221B Baker Street.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 01 – MEETING IN THE SAUNA**

**September 3rd 2014**

In hindsight John couldn’t explain, not even to himself, how Sherlock had managed to get him addicted to the sauna.

Well, _addicted_ would have been a bit strong a word for their soon shared passion, but John had to admit that he’d grown fond of the wet heat that eased the pain in his leg surprisingly well. His limp might have been psychosomatic, but that didn’t mean that it would _not_ hurt, after having returned upon Sherlock’s supposed death.

He was mostly free of it again by now, one year after Sherlock’s return, meaning that he no longer needed the cane, which he had used almost constantly during the three years of Sherlock’s absence. But the recurring visits in the sauna really helped with the remaining aches.

Besides, it gave him an excuse to meet his friend regularly, and _that_ wasn’t an easy thing in these days.

He and Mary lived in a modest little flat with adjoining practice in Queen Anne Street now; a practice in which they both worked. It was a good thing that Mary was a doctor, too, and a general practitioner at that; she could spring in whenever Sherlock needed John’s help with an urgent case. 

Which happened too frequently for her taste – and not frequently enough for John’s by far – but for the sake of their still young marriage, they arranged themselves. And even Mary had to admit that Sherlock restrained himself when it came to monopolizing John’s time… well, compared with what had been _before_.

Before Sherlock would see no other way to save his friend than to jump from the roof of _St. Bart’s_ to his supposed death, shattering John in a billion tiny pieces in the process.

Fortunately, Mary was a smart woman who never tried to separate the two friends (after John could bring himself to speak to Sherlock again, that is). Even if she found it hard that her husband would run off on a wild chase across London with his mad ex-flatmate, often in the middle of the night. 

She, unlike John’s previous love interests, had understood that Sherlock was part of the package – and she was secretly grateful that the broken man she had met by way of Molly was now so full of life again. For that, she was willing to share John with Sherlock… on a purely platonic level, of course.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
And so it happened that on September 3rd John and Sherlock met in their favourite sauna on Northumberland Avenue, like on every second Wednesday, unless The Work interfered. Lying on the low wooden bench with only a towel wrapped around his waist, John happily relaxed after a long, exhausting shift in the practice. 

It was flu season again, unlikely though it seemed in September, although it was an exceptionally cold and rainy one, even as English weather went, and finally having some peace and quiet did a wealth of good for him. So did the heat.

“Well, what’s new at Baker Street?” he asked sleepily. “Anything stirring?”

Sherlock, who was sitting on his own bench, entangled in a sheet as was his wont, reached out with a long, thin arm – he was still dangerously underweight, even a year after his return… probably due to the fact that he no longer had John around, nagging him to eat more regularly. He picked up his phone (of course, he took it with him even to the sauna) and tossed it to John without a word.

Well used to his ex-flatmate’s antics, John snatched the phone mid-air, called up the text messages and checked the most recent ones.

One came from a certain Sir James Damery; a name that was vaguely familiar but he couldn’t put his finger on it right now. The other, how could it have been any different, was from Mycroft.

Sir James Damery’s message was short and formal:

_Mr Holmes, I would be grateful for an opportunity to meet you in person tomorrow, on September 4th, in a delicate and very important matter. Please contact me through the Carlton Club.  
Sir James Damery_

Mycroft’s on the other hand, while also short and succinct, seemed vaguely threatening:

_Don’t even consider refusing, brother dear. MH_

John looked up from the phone and shook his head in tolerant amusement.

“I thought he’d have learned by now how useless threats are when it comes to you.”

“He knows,” Sherlock snatched his phone back. “Unfortunately, I’m deeply enough in his debt that he can extract favours from me for several years to come. And Mycroft is a man who collects his debts. Always.”

His relationship with his brother, although still somewhat precarious, _had_ become less strained during his absence; mostly due to the fact that he could never have destroyed Moriarty’s wide-spread web without Mycroft’s help. Not that he’d openly admit it, of course – he liked to retort with the argument that the fall of Moriarty’s criminal empire furthered Mycroft’s career, too – but at least he didn’t deny it off-hand. And the two of them _did_ get on marginally better. Better than they ever had since childhood.

“Do you have any idea what this might be about?” John asked, while Sherlock was still glaring at his phone.

Sherlock shrugged with a distinctive lack of interest.

“It may be some boring matter about stolen documents again; it also may be a matter of life and death,” he replied. “I don’t know more than the message says, either. But Mycroft wouldn’t have interfered if it weren’t of _some_ importance, at least. Annoying, meddlesome git though he is, he’s not an idiot. Usually.”

And that was as much concession as he would ever give his brother.

“So you agreed to meet this Damery guy then?” John asked.

Sherlock nodded. “Mhm. Have you heard the name before?

John shook his head. “Nope. Not that I’d remember.”

“That’s because he’s good at what he does,” Sherlock said. “Obviously.”

“For _you_ perhaps, since you’ve probably gone through the internet with the fine-toothed comb to find out everything about him, down to the colour of his underwear and the size of his shoes,” John rolled his eyes. “Would you mind to share?”

“Not at all,” Sherlock fixed his eyes on the low ceiling of the sauna as if it had been a computer screen from which he could read the necessary info.

“Sir James Damery has a reputation for arranging… _delicate_ matters, that are to be kept from the press. Remember the Hammerford Will case last year? He led the negotiations with Sir George Lewis and managed to smooth over things without a scandal, which, at first, seemed inevitable. He is a man of the world, with a natural turn for diplomacy.”

“And a friend of Mycroft’s, I guess,” John said.

Sherlock gave him an exasperated look. “Don’t be absurd, John, since when does Mycroft have friends?”

“Well, he did threaten you to take the case,” John pointed out logically (or so he hoped).

“That doesn’t mean the man is his friend,” Sherlock returned. “He works for the Crown and Sir James belongs to the peerage, that’s all.”

“If you say so,” John shrugged; when it came to Mycroft, there was still no use arguing with Sherlock. Some things apparently never changed, despite the thawing of ice between the two Holmes brothers. “So, do you think there actually may be a case?”

“I hope so,” Sherlock replied. “Sir James’s reputation would suggest that this is not a false scent and that he has some real need of our assistance.”

“ _Our_ assistance?” John repeated, grinning. Sherlock nodded.

“I could use your help in this – if you think Mary could be talked into giving you the day off tomorrow.”

“Actually, we’ll be closed tomorrow,” John told him. “Plumbing will be re-done on our side of the street; we can’t treat patients without minimal hygienic requirements like washing hands between them.”

“Excellent!” Sherlock brightened visibly. “Then you’ll be free the entire day!”

“Yeah; which is why I promised Mary that we’d spend it together,” John replied apologetically. “You know, quality time with one’s spouse and all that. Picnic, or a candlelight dinner, or whatever might catch our fancy at a whim.”

Sherlock deflated like a punctured balloon. “But… but that’s _boring_ , John!”

“For you perhaps,” John said. “Ordinary people like me find such things rather nice. Besides, we’re trying to prevent our marriage from falling into routine; hence doing something romantic on our unexpected day off.”

He suppressed a grin when Sherlock’s mobile face contorted into a disgusted grimace upon hearing the R-word but refused to give in to the Sherlockian pout. He loved Mary, his marriage was important for him, and as intriguing the new case promised to be – because despite Sherlock’s insistence to the contrary, cases presented by Mycroft were _always_ intriguing – it was simply not worth risking a fall-out with Mary.

They had had quite a few of those lately. Not all of them because of Sherlock, granted, but enough of them that he wouldn’t want to risk another one.

“Oh!” Sherlock seemed to have one of his trademark lightbulb moments again. “Why don’t you bring Mary with you tomorrow? I can arrange dinner for the two of you at the _Babur_ afterwards.”

John felt his resistance falter. The _Babur_ was a very popular, very stylish Indian restaurant in South-East London. So popular indeed that it was almost impossible to get a table. The waiting lists were half a year long. He knew. He tried, since both Mary and he absolutely loved Indian cuisine.

“How could you possible…” he began; then he trailed off when realisation hit. “Oh. Of course. The stolen blue diamond you found for the Indian ambassador last month.”

Sherlock nodded. “The _Babur_ has a _separee_ , reserved for very special guests. I can get that for you.”

It was tempting. God, it was beyond tempting. Still, John didn’t want to make a decision without asking Mary first. She had strong feelings about that sort of thing. _Very_ strong feelings; and colourful ways to express them beyond doubt.

Oh, she wouldn’t swear, or scream at him… nothing so cheap. But John’s ears tended to burn for days after a thorough dressing down; especially if he deserved it, which he did, more often than not. It was definitely not something he’d want to risk.

“I need to ask Mary first,” he said. “I can’t simply change our plans for tomorrow behind her back.”

Sherlock rolled his eyed at the sight of so much domestication.

“Then ask her, for God’s sake! And be at Baker Street tomorrow at 4:30, sharp. People like Sir James tend to take offence if made to wait.”

“While people like me can be expected to turn over their plans on a whim, just because the great Sherlock Holmes requires their company,” John grumbled good-naturedly.

In truth, he was flattered – and very intrigued what a case involving such important people might be. He only hoped Mary would see it the same way.


	3. Sir James Makes an Appearance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few lines of dialogue are borrowed from “The Adventure of the Illustrious Client”.  
> For visuals: Billy is “played” by Colin Morgan (hence the surname), and Mary by Amanda Abbington. She has nothing to do with the series' version of John's wife, though. John deserves better.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

**CHAPTER 02 – SIR JAMES MAKES AN APPEARANCE**

**September 4th 2014**

As John had expected, Mary was _not_ pleased by the prospective change of their plans for the next day. But – just as predictably – she couldn’t withstand the chance to dine in the _Babur_ ’s special _separee_ ; no lover of Indian kitchen could. And that without the respect that getting into the _Babur_ in the first place would earn them among their friends.

Said friends were mostly medical professionals, including Mike Stamford, Molly Hooper (who had introduced them to each other to begin with), Sarah Sawyer and even Bill Murray. Granted, Bill was just an Army nurse, but he _had_ saved John’s life in Afghanistan, which meant he could do no wrong in Mary’s eyes.

Besides, his wife got on fabulously with Mike’s so their little circle was a friendly and pleasant one, based on shared professional interest and on the fact that they all came from the middle class. Well, save for Bill, but he made up for that by being funny. _And_ by having saved John’s life.

The simplest dinner at the _Babur_ would be a costly affair for any of them. One in the special _separee_ was well beyond what they could usually afford, unless they wanted to empty their pockets for a wedding anniversary or some other important occasion.

“Don’t worry,” John reassured Mary when she voiced her concern about that. “Mycroft must want that case solved very badly; he just sent over a bianco card for the _Babur_ with one of his lackeys.”

“Are we accepting it?” Mary knew that John didn’t like to accept _any_ favours; especially not from Mycroft Holmes. He was still a little mad at the man for letting him believe that Sherlock was dead.

Mary didn’t blame him. She’d seen what Sherlock’s ‘death’ had done to John and was suitably mad at Mycroft himself, for putting John through so much emotional pain. Even if John’s pain and loneliness _had_ opened the way to his heart for her. She didn’t want him in pain. Ever.

John shrugged. “It’s his fault that Sherlock’s agreed to talk to his Sir James in the first place. It’s only fair that he should pay the price. Besides, he can afford it. What use does he have for all that money? He’s already got everything.”

“Save for friends and family,” Mary said quietly. John nodded.

“Yeah. Bad luck for him that one can’t simply buy such things for money, but why shouldn’t we allow him to try?”

Mary finally laughed at that, accepting the change of plans for their day off with minimal effort. It was the _Babur_ , after all. They wouldn’t get a chance like that again any time soon.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
And so in the next afternoon, after a very pleasurable Thames river cruise – the weather behaved for a change, and they had spontaneously decided to play tourist – John kissed his wife good-bye, with the solemn promise that he’d be home in time for their fancy dinner, and caught a cab to get to Baker Street. He arrived a little before the time Sherlock had given him and looked around with a relieved sigh. He might not have lived here for almost two years, but it still felt like home.

And it hadn’t changed much since his very first visit four… no, more than five years ago. _Speedy’s_ was still in business, although Mr Chatterjee no longer owned it, and Mrs Hudson was still busting around in 221A, although she had become visibly older and more fragile since John had moved out.

The only difference was that 221C no longer stood empty. Billy Morgan, once a valuable member of Sherlock’s homeless network and now his lab assistant, errand boy and sometimes-nursemaid, had moved in, courtesy of Mycroft (who found coming up for the rent a small price in exchange for having someone to look after his little brother) and kept a watchful eye on both other occupants of the flat.

In his mid-twenties, he still barely looked older than seventeen, was still frightfully thin and waif-like – “pastry Irish boy”, as he described himself – with an unruly mop of ink-black hair and wide, deep blue eyes. He was devoted to Sherlock and bright enough that Sherlock would tolerate his continued presence and even be willing to teach him things.

The fact that Billy was interested in chemistry certainly helped. He was also a quick learner and had a good memory – _and_ an affinity for computers. He was a “raw diamond”, as Sherlock put it; one that he didn’t mind to cut a bit from time to time.

For Sherlock, this was as close to showing affection towards anyone who wasn’t John as he’d ever come.

John, for his part, liked the boy who had surprisingly good manners for a former street urchin. Therefore he grinned widely when Billy came to answer the door.

“How’re you doing, Billy?”

“Fine, Doctor Watson, just fine,” Billy beamed at him. “Mr Holmes showed me a brand new method for removing blood stains today. He’s in the living room, waiting for you.”

 _I’m sure he is_ , John thought, imagining his best friend pacing in the living room like a caged tiger. Sherlock wasn’t big on patience – if he was willing to include Billy in one of his experiments, he must have been hideously bored already. And a bored Sherlock was a volatile thing.

 _Time for the cavalry to come to the rescue_ , John thought, amused, and hobbled up the stairs to save the world’s only consulting detective from what the man despised most – boredom.

The living room was as cluttered with Sherlock’s things as always; only the coffee table had been cleaned of any unsavoury substances. John noticed with mild surprise that Sherlock had actually brought out the good china: the bone china tea service designed by Ali Miller, each piece decorated with a stylized hand printed map of the British Isles with ships sailing around.

He could also hear that the kettle was already whistling in the kitchen. Whoever this Sir James Damery might be, Sherlock was clearly trying to make a good impression – which only made John even more curious. Anyone whom Sherlock would go such lengths to impress must have been quite the personality.

He also clearly believed in punctuality, because barely had John made himself comfortable in his old armchair – it stood ready to accept him in any hour of the day, complete with the Union Jack pillow, like in old times – when the doorbell rang again. Moments later Billy escorted their visitor up the stairs, as Mrs Hudson had to give up such small pleasantries due to the worsening of her arthritis.

“Sir James Damery for Mr Holmes,” the boy announced in a manner that he’d clearly borrowed from some period drama; _Downton Abbey_ perhaps, which was currently running on several channels. 

Unfortunately for him, the result was rather hilarious.

 _Well, at least he tries to fit in_ , John thought, suppressing a grin and turning his attention to their visitor who came in briskly, hot on Billy’s heels.

Now that he saw the man, he actually recognised the big, masterful aristocrat from the rare – surprisingly rare, considering him importance – occasions he appeared in the media. On second thought, perhaps it wasn’t so surprising after all. If he had a role similar to Mycroft’s – troubleshooting behind the scenes – it was understandable that he preferred to remain in the background.

He must have come directly from his country manor if the herringbone tweed suit he was wearing was any indication. It was olive green and of a cut not typically worn in the city as John had learned from his (not always voluntary) association with Mycroft. The brown check-pattern of his shirt matched the suit beautifully – not surprising, as he was famous for his meticulous care in dressing, at least if the gossip columns could be believed.

The pearl pin in his black satin tie had probably cost more than John and Mary made in a month together, but he didn’t appear like one of those rich and powerful men who liked to show off their wealth. He probably just liked to be well-dressed… again, like Mycroft.

At that point the similarities ended, though, because no-one could have been more different from the quiet, reserved, vaguely sinister Mycroft Holmes than this large, blunt, honest man with his broad, clean-shaven face and pleasant, mellow voice. Frank, grey Irish eyes and an easy smile that spoke of good humour completed the altogether pleasant image of a strong personality that dominated the room – despite Sherlock’s presence, which also was a strong one.

“Mr Holmes,” he said in a heartily manner and took off his gloves to shake Sherlock’s hand. “How good of you to see me at such short a notice!”

“I’m afraid that my brother insisted,” Sherlock replied, ushering him towards the coffee table while John clambered to his feet. “Not that it would have been necessary, of course. Knowing your reputation as a mediator in delicate matters assured me that the case would be a challenging one, but my brother _loves_ to meddle. May I introduce Doctor John Watson, a friend and sometimes colleague?”

“Of course, I was prepared to find Doctor Watson here,” Sir James shook John’s hand vigorously. “My pleasure, sir. I’ve been following that blog of yours with great interest for years. It was recommended to me by Her Majesty’s Equerry. A most interesting read. Most interesting indeed.”

John stole a look at Sherlock’s sour expression and had a hard time to suppress a giggle. Even after all those years, Sherlock could still be insulted that John’s blog – which he often criticised as childish, sensationalist, scientifically inaccurate and grammatically appalling – had so much more readers than his own website.

That didn’t keep him from reading John’s blog, of course, if only to make acerbic comments – which John then ignored with practiced ease. Like he was ignoring the trademark Sherlockian pout right now.

“Thank you, Sir James,” he said instead simply.

In the olden days he’d have offered the man tea, but he had to remind himself that this wasn’t his home anymore. The flat with the little practice in Queen Anne Street was. So he sat back in his old armchair with a pang of sadness and watched as Sherlock poured them tea with his usual grace.

It was a different blend than the cheap teabags from Tesco’s he’d used to buy for them when he’d lived here: presumably a lot more expensive, and lose leaf tea, like the sort that Mycroft served in the rare cases that his regular kidnappings would take place in his office rather than the usual empty warehouse. So much had changed since he left Baker Street.

But Sherlock still remembered how John took his tea and that, again, caused a doctor a pang of sadness. As much as he loved Mary and enjoyed his new life, he missed this. He missed _Sherlock_ and the madness that was living at 221B Baker Street.

Being a full-time doctor was fulfilling, even challenging sometimes. But chasing criminals across the rooftops of London had been _exciting_ , and he missed that excitement. That bloody Mycroft had been _so_ right at their first encounter. London was a battlefield, and John Watson was missing his war.


	4. The Austrian Murderer

**CHAPTER 03 – THE AUSTRIAN MURDERER**

**September 4th 2014**

“Actually, I’m pleased to find Doctor Watson with you, Mr Holmes,” Sir James remarked after the first cup of tea. “His collaboration may be very necessary, as we are dealing with a man to whom violence is familiar and who won’t be stopped by anything from reaching his goal. I’d dare to say that he’s the most dangerous man you’ve ever met.”

“I’ve had several opponents to whom that flattering title has been applied,” Sherlock said with a tight smile, quickly adopting the older man’s somewhat formal speech patterns.

“Your own brother, for starters,” John commented with a grin. Sherlock gave him a scathing look for the interruption before continuing.

“If your man is more dangerous than a certain James Moriarty – who, as you ought to know by now _wasn’t_ a myth – or his right-hand man, Colonel Sebastian Moran, then he’s probably worth my time. So, who is he?”

“Have you ever heard of Baron Gruner?” Sir James asked. “He’s also known as _Freiherr_ von Gruenewald among European nobility.”

Sherlock’s mobile brows rose to the roots of his unruly curls – a sure sign of his awakening interest. “You mean the infamous Austrian murderer?”

Sir James shook his head in amazement. “There’s no getting past you, Mr Holmes, is it? All the better! So you’re also certain about his guilt? You also think he’s a murderer? Despite him being spoken free?”

“Oh, please!” Sherlock scoffed. “It was a textbook case! Who could possibly have read the court reports and have any doubt about the man’s guilt? It was a mere technicality that his lawyers cleverly misused for his advantage that saved him.”

“That, and the suspicious and very convenient death of the key witness,” John commented dryly.

He had, of course, followed the trial in the media – who had not? It had been the biggest media spectacle since the trial of O.J. Simpson… with an equally dubious outcome. Just like Sherlock, John – and half the planet – was quite sure that Baron Gruner had, indeed, killed his wife when the so-called ‘accident’ happened in the Spenger Pass, as sure as if he’d seen the man do it with his own eyes. But since – unlike Sherlock – he didn’t have contacts to high society, nor any interest in reading the tabloids, he hadn’t known that Gruner had come to England.

“Interesting,” his friend was saying. “I knew that sooner or later he would find me some work to do. Well, what had Baron Gruner been up to? I hope it’s not the old murder case coming up again? I don’t accept cases that are already solved; and meting out his well-deserved punishment is the job of the courts, not mine.”

Sir James shook his head vigorously. “No, it’s more serious than that. To punish a crime is important, but to prevent one is even more so,” he sighed. “It’s a terrible thing, Mr. Holmes, to see an atrocious situation preparing itself before your eyes, to clearly understand where it will lead and yet to be unable to avert it. Can anyone be placed in a more trying position?”

“Perhaps not,” Sherlock replied slowly, his eyes darkening with recent memories.

Memories that John understood all too well, because had Sherlock not seen Moriarty’s devious plan unfold before his eyes and been unable to stop the madman in time? Had that helplessness not forced him into hiding for three years, breaking the hearts of everyone who cared for him, including John’s own?

By the way this case had been presented, John didn’t have the slightest doubt that Sherlock would accept it and mutely congratulated their visitor to the skilful method with which he’d already secured Sherlock’s cooperation… even if Sherlock himself might not realise it just yet. Clearly, Sir James’s reputation as a shrewd negotiator was a well-deserved one.

“Then you’ll certainly sympathise with the client in whose interest I’m acting,” Sir James continued, and Sherlock stiffened in his seat indignantly.

 _Uh-oh_ , John thought, _this is a bit not good_. Sherlock violently disliked being approached by mediators, which was one of the reasons why he was reluctant to accept any cases from Mycroft.

The other reason was Mycroft himself, of course.

“I wasn’t aware that you were just an intermediary,” Sherlock said stiffly, as if reading John’s thoughts. “Who is the actual client?”

Sir James squirmed in his seat uncomfortably. “I’m afraid I’m not at the liberty of discussing his identity, Mr Holmes. Let’s just say that his motives are entirely selfless and honourable, but he prefers to remain unknown. I’m sure you can accept his concern about his name being dragged into the matter?

John’s ears perked up in interest. The whole situation had an eerie resemblance to the one in Buckingham Palace, almost four years ago. The Equerry, whom Mycroft had simply addressed as ‘Harry’, had used very similar words when trying to get Sherlock on the case of The Woman, while making valiant efforts to keep the involvement of the royal family covered.

Could it be that once again the royals were involved in some way? This time it couldn’t be Her Majesty, though; Sir James had repeatedly said _he_. That, of course, left John with a number of possibilities, from the royal spouse through the sons down to the youngest generation; and that not counting any kin by marriage.

But what could the royals _possibly_ have to do with the infamous Austrian aristocrat? John didn’t quite remember the name of the Baron’s murdered wife but he was fairly sure she’d been German. Or French. Or Italian. Something European, in any case. _Not_ English.

So it had to be something else. Something _really_ important. Something that could result in a scandal that wouldn’t let Buckingham Palace untouched, if the whole secrecy was any indication.

Suddenly John was very curious to learn more.

Unfortunately, he also knew Sherlock’s stubborn streak. The world’s only consulting detective took it as a personal affront if anyone tried to withhold information from him. The surest way to make Sherlock _extremely_ uncooperative was _not_ telling him the whole truth.

John wondered if Sir James was aware of that fact. If he knew Mycroft well enough, he should have been – in theory. But again, who aside Sherlock did _really_ know Mycroft well enough?

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said predictably. “I’m accustomed to have mystery at one end of my cases, but to have it at both ends is too confusing.(*) I’m afraid, Sir James, that I’ll have to decline.”

John had that weird _déjá vu_ feeling again. These were almost exactly the words Sherlock had used to refuse taking Irene Adler’s case four years ago. The parallels were beyond eerie… and now he definitely wanted to know more.

“Er… Sherlock,” he said. “Perhaps Sir James could give us some of the bare facts before you’d reject the whole thing off-hand? You might find the case interesting, after all – and I wouldn’t have wasted my day off instead spending it with my wife.”

Sherlock gave him a look that – on the face of anyone else – would count as wounded. On his, it looked more like petulant. But he tended to back off nowadays if John played the guilt card – like now. After a moment he shrugged and turned back to Sir James.

“By all means, Sir James, do lay all that you can before us. As long as it’s understood that I won’t commit myself to anything just yet.”

“That’s understood,” Sir James shot John a look full of relief and gratitude. As if he’d been certain that once Sherlock had heard the details he’d take the case without hesitation. “For starters, I’m sure you’ve heard of General Merville?”

Sherlock stiffened in his seat again, and so did John this time, for _that_ was a name that he, too, knew all too well. No-one who’d served in Her Majesty’s Army in the last thirty years or so could have remained ignorant. General Merville was the sort of brave soldier and exemplary officer whom his men would have followed to hell and back without a second thought.

Or without a first one, for that matter.

Now that he thought about it, wasn’t Merville related to the royal family somehow? Distantly enough that he wouldn’t count as actual family, perhaps through his late wife, but the mere fact still earned him even more respect among the fighting troops. What possible connection could _he_ have with the Austrian murderer?

And, for that matter, what possible connection could he have to _Sherlock_ , who was looking more tense and uncomfortable than he’d seen him for a long time.

Not since Mycroft had dragged him away to meet their mother, that is. A meeting John had been asked to attend as well and that had made Sherlock insufferable for weeks afterwards. Holmes family meetings always had that effect on him, which was why he so rarely attended to them.

“Yes, of course I’ve heard of him and you know that, so there’s no need for obfuscating,” Sherlock replied to Sir James impatiently. “What does _he_ have to do with this?”

“Not him,” Sir James said. “His daughter, Violet. As I’m sure you know, Mr Holmes, she’s in her late twenties now; a rich, beautiful, accomplished girl, whom we’re endeavouring to save from the clutches of a murderer.”

Sherlock raised a curious eyebrow. 

“Baron Gunner has some hold over her, then?” he asked with a definite hint of doubt in his voice. 

That hint of doubt, however, went by Sir James completely unnoticed. Perhaps he was too occupied with his own concerns about the girl.

“The strongest of all holds where a young girl is concerned,” he said. “She had fallen for him completely. The man, as you surely have seen in the news reports, is quite good-looking, not to mention wealthy, with a self-confidence that is mind-blowing yet works amazingly well on women, and he can play the romance card, as young people like to call it, better than most. He’s said to have that effect on every woman he meets and make ample use of that effect.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “The crushing tedium of boring people with their boring emotions! But how came a man like Baron Gruner to meet someone of the standing of Violet Merville?”

“They met on a pleasure cruise on the Mediterranean,” Sir James explained with a sigh. “You heard of the latest voyage of the _Aida_ , I presume. They have a very exclusive clientele... as a rule. I doubt that the promoters even recognised the Baron’s name until it was too late – the _Aida_ was cruising the Pacific during his process in Vienna. And so that… that _criminal_ had the chance to attach himself to poor Violet so successfully that he had her wrapped around his little finger by the end of the cruise. She’s obsessed with him. She won’t hear one word against him.”

“Hasn’t her father tried to separate them?” Sherlock asked.

Sir James nodded. “Oh, yes, everything has been done to cure the girl of her madness, but in vain. The best therapists have been hired to talk her out of this insanity, but to no end. The only result they’d reached was that she decided to marry him next month. And since she’s of age and stubborn like a mule, there’s practically no way to stop her.”

“No, I’m sure there isn’t,” Sherlock said in a tone that made John wonder if he knew the girl personally.

He wouldn’t put it beyond him; Sherlock knew the most unusual people and rarely spoke about them, unless a case required it.

“Does she know about the Austrian episode?” he then asked.

“Indeed,” Sir James said darkly. “That shrewd devil has told her every unsavoury scandal of his past life, but managed to twist the truth in a way that would show him in the role of an innocent martyr.”

“And she accepts his version?” Sherlock asked doubtfully.

“Unfortunately, she does,” Sir James sighed. “She does, and she won’t listen to anyone else.”

“I see,” Sherlock said. “You realise, of course, that you’ve accidentally revealed the name of your client. It’s General Merville, isn’t it?”

Sir James fidgeted in his chair again. “I could deceive you by saying so, Mr Holmes, but it wouldn’t be true. The truth is, Merville is a broken man. He’s been completely demoralised by this turn of events and is incapable of dealing with a brilliant, ruthless criminal like Gruner. No; my client is an old friend who’s known the General since military training and the girl since she was in her diapers. He can’t sit idly and watch this tragedy to happen without at least trying to stop it.”

“I can understand that… in theory at least,” Sherlock said. “Why me, though? How has _my_ name come up?”

“There’s nothing Scotland Yard could do,” Sir James replied glumly. “My client has heard of your achievements, Mr Holmes, and it was his own suggestion that you should be called in; under the stipulation that he should not be personally involved in the matter. I don’t doubt that you could easily trace him back through me, but I must ask you to refrain from doing so.”

Sherlock gave him a tight smile. “I think that can be arranged,” he said. “Now that you’ve explained me the problem, I’ll look into it – although for different reasons than you might believe. Where can I reach you?”

“In the _Carlton Club_ ,” Sir James answered. “In case of emergency, though, you can simply call me on my phone; the one from which I texted you.”

Sherlock nodded. “Very well, I’ll call you as soon as I’ve got something. John, if you’d kindly see Sir James out…”

The request surprised John a bit, but he was used to Sherlock’s unusual requests and knew that they usually had a good reason. So he simply stood and escorted the grateful aristocrat out, wondering what did Sherlock know about the Mervilles that he wasn’t willing to share with their client.

Because John could definitely feel that there was _something_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (*) Believe it or not, this statement comes from “The Adventure of the Illustrious Client”. Check it if you want.


	5. Family Secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few lines of dialogue are borrowed from “The Adventure of the Illustrious Client”.  
>  _Freiherr_ (= Freeman) is the old-fashioned German word for Baron; a Baroness may be called _Freifrau_. And yes, European aristocrats do adopt commons from time to time, either for financial advantage or because they don’t have children of their own.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 04 – FAMILY SECRETS**

**September 4th 2014**

When he returned to the living room, he found Sherlock sitting in his chair, hands stapled under his chin in his characteristic thinking pose. He clearly hadn’t retired to his Mind Palace, though, because his eyes were not vacant. So John hoped that he would be ready to discuss the case.

“All right, Sherlock,” he said, falling into his old armchair, opposite his friend. “Who’s this girl, how do you know her and why did you take the case, even though Mycroft clearly had his fingers in the whole thing?”

Sherlock gave him a pained grimace. “You know _who_ she is, John, don’t be ridiculous! You’re an Army doctor, surely you must have heard of General Merville.”

“Of course I have,” John replied. “But we’re talking about his _daughter_ here. A daughter you seem to know from more than just the tabloids.”

Sherlock pulled a face. “Oh, for God’s sake, as if I’d waste my time with reading their drivel! Why don’t you try to use that tiny little brain of yours for a change? You’ve heard the girl’s name; it’s not a very common one.”

“True. So what?” John still wasn’t getting it, and it made him more than just a little annoyed. Having moved out of Baker Street also meant less exposure to Sherlock’s, well, _Sherlockness_ , and thus he was no longer entirely immune against his ex-flatmate’s casual insults.

Sherlock glared daggers at him. “So, have you known anyone else by that name?”

“Not among _my_ friends, I haven’t,” John replied.

His friends all had normal, everyday names. Not everyone could be a Holmes, cursed by the most ridiculous names a deranged parent could think of… oh!

I a sudden flashback of almost blinding clarity he could see himself at the only time he’d visited the Holmes manor, being introduced to the infamous Mummy – tall and imperious like both her sons, with Sherlock’s pale eyes and high cheekbones. Her deep contralto voice still echoed in his ears.

 _It is a pleasure to meet you, Doctor Watson. I’m Violet Holmes_.

“Your mother,” John said. “Is she related to the girl?”

“Not by blood,” Sherlock replied. “But Father was an old friend of General Merville, which is why they named their only, late-born daughter after Mummy. She’s the girl’s godmother, too.”

“I see,” John _really_ thought that _this_ time he’d figured it out on his own. “So, you think your client is actually _Mycroft_?”

“Oh, please!” Sherlock snorted disdainfully. “He’d never do anything so simple.”

Right. It would have been too nice to ‘get’ the Holmes mindset just this once.

“ _Simple_?” John repeated in disbelief. “Sending somebody on such a roundabout way to make you take the case is simple?”

“It is for Mycroft,” Sherlock shrugged. “ _And_ for me.” No; the actual client is somebody else. Somebody standing way above Mycroft; _or_ Sir James.”

“Hmmm,” John frowned a little. “Do you know _who_ it is?”

“Let’s say I can make an educated guess,” Sherlock replied. “Sir James is also an old friend of the Duke of York; and the late wife of General Melville…”

“… was distantly related to the royal family, yes, I know,” John interrupted him a little impatiently. “What?” he asked, seeing Sherlock's surprise. “You’re not the only one who knows things. All right, then, is the Duke your client?”

“It’s a distinct possibility,” Sherlock admitted. “But, as Sir James said, it’s irrelevant. I must do my best to get rid of this Baron Gruner. If I don’t, it would upset Mummy, and believe me, you don’t want Mummy upset. _That_ would lower the temperature in the whole country by ten degrees in a second.”

“She was friendly enough to me,” John said.

“You’re not family; and you haven’t crossed her yet,” Sherlock answered dryly. “Fortunately, she’s not my problem right now. Not yet. My problem is the _Lügenbaron_.”

“The _what_?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at this question. “Really, John, and _you_ criticize _me_ for my lack of knowledge in popular culture? Have you never heard of Munchausen, the Baron of Lies? What kind of childhood did you have?”

“Pot – kettle – black,” John muttered but let the topic slide because there was no use arguing with Sherlock when he was in a mood like this. “So, have you learned anything new from the Baron in the three minutes while I saw Sir James out?”

“Surprisingly little, considering how privacy has become extinct since the birth of the internet,” Sherlock admitted unhappily. “His current address is Vernon Lodge, near Kingston.”

“Never heard of the place,” John said.”

“Neither have I before, but fortunately for us, it has a long history and therefore its own Wikipedia entry. Look at this!”

Sherlock turned around his laptop so that John would have a good look at the screen, which showed the high resolution photo of Vernon Lodge: the architectural nightmare of a long, low building that was still imposing in its size and solidity, in spite of the silly little turrets at the corners.

“The article says that the place has originally been built by some rich adventurer who’d made his wealth with South-African gold in the days of the great boom,” he explained. It has been redecorated several times since then; until Baron Gruner bought it some ten years ago and decided to have its original form reconstructed. He probably liked the ‘fortified manor’ look of it; calling such a pompous place his own would be attractive to a con man like him.”

“You think he’s a fake?”

“Oh, don’t be an idiot, John; _of course_ he’s a fake!” Sherlock huffed. “The Anglicised version of a German name should be enough to point it our, even for you!”

John crossed his arms in challenge. “Well, it does _not_. And Sir James called him a Baron; he’d know if Gruner were an impostor.”

“Strangely enough, he isn’t; but that doesn’t mean he’d be an aristocrat by blood,” Sherlock said. “It’s true hat he was _adopted_ by the _Freiherr_ von Grünewald zu Drachenfels, a penniless aristocrat from Austria. Quite a few noble families in Europe do this to escape poverty; they usually demand a hefty fee for sharing their historic name.”

“And you’ve figured this out in these few minutes?” John shook his head in amazement. “That’s… brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.”

“As much as I enjoy baffling you, I’m afraid this time it isn’t my doing,” Sherlock confessed. “It’s all in the Wikipedia entry about our Baron; he seems fairly proud of his achievement. His true name is Albert Gruner; son of an Austrian father and an Italian mother from South Tyrol, which supposedly explains his success with women.”

“Ah,” John said, getting the hint. “A ‘Latin lover’ type, then?”

Sherlock nodded. “And one who clearly brings out the best of the role. Have I mentioned that his late wife was the heiress of a considerable real estate enterprise in Vienna?”

“No, Sherlock, you haven’t,” John grinned, seeing that his friend was rapidly gaining speed.

“Well, she was,” Sherlock called up various news articles on the screen. “Strangely enough, her bank account was empty when she died; swept absolutely clean.”

“Legally?”

“Oh, yes. All transactions were either performed by her in person or with her password online. Where the money has gone – and we’re speaking about millions in double digits here – no-one can tell.”

“I remember reading something about that in the papers,” John said. “So you think our Baron has her money now?”

“Hard to tell,” Sherlock replied thoughtfully. “Just before he would be adopted into aristocracy, he’d been fortunate in some rather shady speculations and became a very rich man, but all that might be gone again. We’ll need a deeper insight into his finances; Mycroft would know more about that.”

“You’re asking your brother for help?” John asked in mock horror. “The world must be ending!”

“I’ll demand his cooperation, since he brought me into this twisted case in the first place,” Sherlock corrected haughtily. John rolled his eyes.

“You’re really childish, the two of you. All right, what else have you learned about the Baron?”

“He has expensive tastes,” Sherlock said. “Horses seem to be a great passion of his, but he also collects books and pictures. Seems to be a man with an artistic streak. _And_ he’s a recognised authority on Chinese pottery; he even has written a book about it.”

“Well, if that isn’t a surprise,” John muttered, but Sherlock shook his head.

“No, actually it isn’t. All great criminals have a complex mind, and many of them possess some artistic talent.”

“If you say so,” John said doubtfully. “How are you going to approach this case then?”

Sherlock gave him one of those tight smiles. “Any views on how I should?”

“Perhaps you should talk to the girl,” John suggested. “You’ve known her since childhood, after all.”

“Which is why she’s unlikely to listen to me,” Sherlock said. “Although I might give it a try later, if only to see if she’s hiding anything. But I think we must begin from a different angle; and I also believe that Shinwell Johnson might be able to help with that.”

John nodded slowly. Shinwell Johnson was one of Sherlock’s unofficial agents. A reformed criminal who’d spent altogether eleven years in prison, on two different occasions, before he’d have a change of the heart and ally himself to Sherlock.

On the outside he still seemed to be his old self, working as the doorkeeper of a night club. He used his extensive contacts in the criminal underworld of London to gather information for Sherlock; information that often proved to be of vital importance. In exchange for money, of course, but he was very reliable.

Had he been working with the police, he’d long have been exposed and most likely killed by now. But since he only ever dealt with Sherlock, his ‘friends’ never discovered his activities. His criminal past, with his considerable length of time in prison had given him a fearsome reputation among the criminal classes; therefore he had easy access to every night club, gambling arcade and doss house in the city.

He also had a shrewd mind and good observation skills, which made him an ideal agent for gaining information. Yes, if anyone could ferret out the Baron’s dirty secrets, it would be Shinwell Jones, John decided.

He looked at his watch. “Well, good luck with that. I’m out and off now. Must put on something fancy for my romantic evening with Mary.”

He grinned at the disgust appearing on Sherlock’s face at the R-word and scurried down the stairs.


	6. In the Lion's Den

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few lines of dialogue are borrowed from “The Adventure of the Illustrious Client”. Baron Gruner is “played” by Richard Armitage.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 05 – IN THE LION’S DEN**

**September 4th 2014**

After releasing John to his reconciliatory dinner with Mary, Sherlock called Shinwell Johnson, giving the man detailed instructions about what kind of information he would need. Then he spent an hour considering the various possibilities he could pursue. When he finally came to a decision, he jumped to his feet and hurried down to 221C.

“Billy, I think I’d like to get a close grip with my man,” he told his young sidekick. “I’ll go and meet him eye to eye and see for myself the stuff he’s made of. Get me a cab; I’m going out to Kingston.”

Even though Billy could not, in any way, be compared to John, he did have one advantage on the good doctor: he was an adventurous soul who didn’t really think of the possible dangers and neither did he care about the likely consequences. Diving headfirst into everything was his preferred method.

“Can I go with you, Mr Holmes?” he asked excitedly.

Sherlock hesitated for a moment. On the one hand, he didn’t want to endanger Billy; the boy was very useful, and he’d hate to lose him. On the other hand, it might be practical to have somebody outside the Baron’s house to call the police if necessary.

“Very well,” he said. “But you’ll have to wait for me outside. Should I not return within the hour, you’ll call Lestrade. Understood?”

Billy nodded eagerly. Several times, in fact. “Oh yes, Mr Holmes!”

“All right, then,” Sherlock hesitated for a moment whether he should put on his Belstaff – an exact replica of his trusted old coat that had been irreparably ruined by his ‘suicide’ – but in the end decided against it. He might feel like a naked snail without it (in fact, he _did_ ), but temperatures had risen considerably since the previous day, so that wearing a greatcoat not only would have been uncomfortably warm, it would also have been ridiculous.

And if there was anything Sherlock hated with a passion, it was being ridiculed by idiots who compensated for their lack of intellect by mocking a genius.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Therefore he decided that a suit and a silk scarf (serving purely decorative purposes) would have to do and off he went, Billy waiting with a cab for him already. He briefly regretted not having John – not to mention John’s gun – with him but that couldn’t be helped at the moment. John was at the _Babur_ with Mary, enjoying the dinner _he_ had organised for them, and he had to get used to the fact that his best friend no longer was exclusively _his_.

The trip to Kingston took longer than expected, mostly because they got caught up in the rush hour, but it was still full daylight when they reached Vernon Lodge. The large house was every bit as pompous and tasteless as it looked on its internet photos, but there was no use disputing 19th century fashion and architecture. Some periods simply had an unfortunate preference for overdone pomp.

Plus, money wanted to show off, no matter at what era.

“Wait here for me with the boy,” Sherlock said to the cabbie. “I won’t be long. Billy, you remember what you have to do?”

“Yes, Mr Holmes, sir,” Billy beamed with excitement.

Sherlock rolled his eyes but didn’t comment on the young man’s childish delight. After all, wasn’t he the same every time a new, promising case showed up? At least Billy _was_ here with him.

That reminded him that he needed to keep John informed, so he quickly fired off a text message.

_Johnson is on the prowl. Meet you tomorrow at Simpson’s; usual time, usual table. SH_

There was no immediate answer. John had most likely switched off his phone. Or muted it. He wouldn’t check his messages more often than once an hour. That was Mary’s only concession during a family dinner.

Sherlock suppressed an impatient sigh, shook his head and headed towards the front door of the sprawling mansion. It was time to beard the lion in his den, and sometimes a direct approach was the best. If Violet had truly fallen for the Baron as much as Sir James seemed to believe, she’d already have told him about her connection to the Holmes family.

The question remained, of course, if that made the Baron realise just who he was up against.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Unlike poor Billy earlier in the afternoon, the smooth, middle-aged butler who answered the door could have directly stepped off the set of _Downton Abbey_.

“Can I help you sir?” he asked with a North Yorkshire accent that, too, would have made the producers of that particular TV-show weep with delight.

Sure, it _was_ a false one, but magnificently falsified.

Sherlock handed him one of his more elaborate business cards; the one with the Sherringford family crest in the corner. He didn’t really like the fancy card, but it did have its uses. Like now.

“I’d like a word with Baron Gruner if he’s available,” he replied, with just a hint of Mycroft’s more emphasized accent in his voice. He could do posh with the best of them, even if he usually chose not to.

His card was put on a small silver tray that the butler produced seemingly out of nowhere – it was an excellent sleigh-of-hand move; Sherlock mentally warned himself to check his pockets before leaving the house – and the man bowed slightly.

“I shall ask the Baron in a moment, sir. If you’d be as good as to follow me into the hallway in the meantime…”

That was very much to Sherlock’s liking because it would give him the chance to make some undisturbed observations about the house itself. He’d have to be careful, of course; and excellent and highly successful antagonist like Gruner would have his own surveillance devices installed everywhere, so making records – written or electronic ones – wouldn’t be advisable.

Fortunately, Sherlock didn’t need such crude methods to remember things. That was what his Mind Palace was for.

So he waited in the ground floor hallway, his eyes systematically cataloguing the marble staircase leading to the upper floors, with gilded bronze candelabras standing at each turn, the antiquated cabinets – made of dark, polished wood and intricately carved – displaying the finest pieces of the Baron’s Chinese pottery collection, the ancient yet clearly functional weapons mounted on the walls within easy reach, and filled away every detail for further use.

He was certain that he’d have to return to Vernon Lodge later, and for such a case knowing the exact place of everything in the foyer could prove vital.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
He was almost done when one of the doors on his left opened and out came the Baron himself, wearing black Armani slacks, a tailored silk shirt and hand-made Italian leather slippers under a dressing gown of heavy, figured black silk. He could have descended the marble staircase for greater effort but he clearly didn’t feel the need for such theatrical gestures, which spoke of considerable self-confidence.

Albert Gruner might not have been nobly born, but he definitely had breeding in him – a real aristocrat of crime he was, with a superficial suggestion of afternoon tea and all the cruelty of the grave behind it. He gave Sherlock a cool smile that never reached his very dark, almost black eyes, and with a sudden jolt of excitement Sherlock realised that he was facing the first true adversary of his own calibre since the demise of Jim Moriarty.

“I rather expected to see you sooner or later, Mr Holmes,” the Baron said in a silky voice by way of greeting; it sounded like the purring of a cat who thought to see a prospective mouse. “You’ve been hired, no doubt, by General Merville to try stopping my marriage with his daughter, the lovely Violet, am I right?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Quite frankly, I haven’t seen the General since I was sixteen years old, I think, and even then, he made no secret of his contempt towards me. Few of my father’s… _associates_ ever did.”

A sarcastic eyebrow rose towards the Baron’s slicked-back, dark curls. “Then why are you here?”

“Because my brother loves to interfere with other people’s lives and unfortunately, I’m in his debt,” Sherlock admitted morosely.

Sometimes the truth – or part of it – was the best lie; and it seemed he’d chosen the right answer, as the Baron shot him an amused glance.

“Oh, yes, Violet told me about your childish little feud that has gone on for more than thirty years,” he said. “As you can see, I know well enough who you are, Mr Holmes. And I must admit that I’m impressed by what you’ve achieved so far.”

“I’m flattered,” Sherlock said flatly.

“You should be; very few people manage to impress me,” the Baron replied. “It would be a crying shame to ruin your excellent reputation with a case in which you can’t possibly succeed, though. You’d only waste your valuable time; not to mention endanger yourself. Let me give you a piece of well-meant advice: back off as long as you still can.”

“That’s odd,” Sherlock answered with thinly veiled irony. “I was just about to give you the same advice. I’ve researched you, Baron, and I’ve come to respect your intellect. What little I’ve seen from your personality hasn’t lessened that respect a bit.”

“I’m flattered,” the Baron echoed his previous words.

“You should be; not many people manage to impress _me_ , either,” Sherlock said. “So let me give you a fair warning. Nobody gives a flying shit about your past, as my friend Doctor Watson would so eloquently put it. All that happened in a different time, in a different country, and is not our concern. But if you persist in this marriage, you’ll raise some powerful enemies who’ll make sure that England would become too hot to hold you. Is the game worth it?”

“Isn’t the game the only thing that makes worth taking great risks?” the Baron turned around the question. “Isn’t it how you’ve lived all your life, Mr Holmes? Do you really think that people like General Merville, or that old fool Sir James Demery can make me back off? Or that _you_ can?”

“I wasn’t speaking of the General or Sir James,” Sherlock said. “You’re right; they’re men of the old school and therefore mostly harmless for the likes of you and me. But I have an obligation to other people who are powerful and ruthless beyond even _your_ imagination; and yes, I think I _can_ make you back off if I put my mind to it.”

For a moment the Baron seemed to consider his words. But then he just shook his head and chuckled.

“And _I think_ that you’re trying to play a hand with no cards in it, Mr Holmes. It’s an excellent bluff, no-one could do it better, but it’s rather pathetic, all the same. Not one face card there; nothing but the smallest of the small.”

“So you think,” Sherlock replied, although he was bluffing, and they both knew it.

“So I _know_ ,” the Baron said. “My hand, on the other hand, is so strong that I can afford showing it. I assume you’re planning to talk to Violet; to ‘open her eyes’ as those naïve old fools would say, in the hope that she’d change her mind about marrying me when she gets confronted with my shadowy past, aren’t you?”

“Not if I can help it,” Sherlock answered bluntly. “I know you’ve already done so and fed her your own version; and while I don’t know how you’ve done it, knowing how incredibly stubborn she can be, I don’t like wasting my time. Besides, Violet and I never liked each other. I always made great efforts to _avoid_ the necessity of speaking to her – it’s tedious and boring and utterly useless, most of the time. I might make an exception this time, though; if only to see whether she’s still as annoying and self-absorbed as she used to be.”

“Careful, Mr Holmes,” the Baron said, and for the first time there was a faint touch of enmity in his voice. “It’s my future wife you’re speaking about.”

“So what?” Sherlock returned. “Her intention to marry you against all sensible warnings doesn’t raise my respect for _her_ intellect half a notch, and if she insists on doing so then, I think, she deserves her fate. Unfortunately for you, there are some people who disagree.” He looked around, taking in the objects and dimensions of the hallway one last time. “Well, this was all _very_ interesting, but I think I’ll take my leave from you now. It seems we both have said everything we had to say, and I for my part am not for idle chatter.”

“Neither am I,” the Baron replied congenially; but when Sherlock already had his hand on the doorknob, he stopped him for a moment. “By the way, Mr Holmes, I understand you knew Le Brun, the French agent?”

Sherlock nodded. Le Brun had been one of the people he used to work with on taking down the French connections of Moriarty’s web… quite successfully. That the Baron would know about their association was disturbing but not truly surprising. The higher ups in the criminal classes always kept tabs on each other.

“I heard that he was beaten up by some unknown attackers while working undercover on a case in the drug scene and was crippled for life,” he said slowly. “It happened last year, if I remember correctly.”

The Baron nodded, smiling in that inscrutable way of his.

“Quite true, Mr Holmes; terrible business, wasn’t it? By some curious coincidence he’d been enquiring about my affairs only the week before. Don’t make the same mistake, Mr Holmes; it’s not a lucky thing to do. You wouldn’t be the first person to find that out; not the last one.”

“Are you threatening me, Baron?” Sherlock asked softly. It was a tone that usually made strong men weep, but the Baron didn’t even blink.

“Not at all, Mr Holmes,” he said. “Just a friendly warning. If you’re really as smart as you’re said to be, you’d heed it, though. Good-bye.”

“Then let me return the favour and give _you_ a friendly warning,” Sherlock said. “It’s not a smart thing to challenge Sherlock Holmes. Challenges are something I find hard to resist; and once I’ve picked up the gauntlet, you won’t get another chance to back off. Good-bye.”

He turned around without hurry and walked out of the house to where Billy and the cab were still waiting for him patiently.

“Let’s go home, Billy,” he said. “The game’s on, and I’ve got the feeling that we’ll need to collect all our cards if we intend to win. This time we’re playing with a wickedly good player.”

Billy just stared at him with suddenly very mature eyes and shook his head.

“You shouldn’t enjoy this so much, Mr Holmes,” he said solemnly. “Things tend to take a turn to the worse every time you’re like this.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You’re worse than John sometimes. Let’s go, we’ve got work to do!”

Billy opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something, but then changed his mind and climbed into the cab after Sherlock without further arguments.


	7. La Belle Dame Sans Mercy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few lines of dialogue are borrowed from “The Adventure of the Illustrious Client”.   
> For visuals: Kitty Winter is ‘played’ by Georgia Moffet.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 06 – LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCY**

**September 5th 2014**

The day in the practice had been long and exhausting… which, on the one hand, was a good thing, John mused, after having seen the last patient of the day out and collapsing on his office chair. A numerous clientele meant a good reputation and a steady income, both of which they needed if they wanted to maintain a certain – however modest – lifestyle. Life in London was _not_ cheap.

On the other hand, all those mundane cases could be really mind-numbing. Sometimes he thought if he had one more flu patient, or upset stomach, or imaginary tearing in a little old lady’s arthritic back, he’d scream. Yes, he loved his profession, but his current work was light years away from the rush of being a battlefield trauma surgeon, which he’d chosen to train for as a young medical student. Being a GP, working in his own modest little practice day in, day out was _boring_.

He tended to understand Sherlock better on days like this.

Perhaps he wouldn’t be so restless if he’d taken that job at A&E he’d been offered right after falling in love with Mary. Making split-second decisions, facing life-threatening injuries would be the closest thing to what he had been doing in Afghanistan; only without the danger of being shot. But _that_ would have meant long, irregular hours; a job that he couldn’t push to the side whenever Sherlock needed his help. 

Besides, Mary couldn’t run the practice on her own. It was a two-doctor job.

He sighed and rubbed his burning eyes tiredly. The cabin fever was getting to him again. He needed to get out, and he needed it _now_ , or he’d be snapping at Mary for nothing again, and all the good their wonderful dinner at the _Babur_ had done would be ruined.

Sherlock had texted last night to meet him at _Simpson’s_ at the usual time – which was 7 p.m. – and he just had enough time left to grab a shower and change clothes. The problem was, he’d forgotten to mention it to Mary in the morning, and now dreaded her reaction to the news that he was about to leave her alone for the evening. Again.

She’d been fairly tolerant so far, but living with Sherlock’s demands wasn’t an easy thing, for either of them. Even though Sherlock _was_ showing remarkable restraint lately, at least compared with his earlier behaviour.

Well, that couldn’t be helped. Gathering his strength, John stood to close the practice and ‘face the music’, as they say.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
He was extremely relieved (and a bit ashamed over his own reaction) to find Mary in the living room, entertaining Sarah Sawyer and Molly Hooper. The latter had obviously brought a whole bag of muffins and scones and other sweets, and the three women were having tea, discussing the new financial restrictions for private clinics and the general idiocy of the Health Secretary… a topic that would never become outdated.

“Since you’ll be out with Sherlock tonight, I organised a girls’ night in for us,” Mary explained, taking his face in both hands and kissing him. “Hurry up or you’ll be late; and he’ll be huffing and puffing all the time again.”

John stared at his wife in surprise. “You know? I forgot to tell you, I’m so sorry…”

Mary grinned and showed him her phone. “Yeah, but _he_ didn’t forget.”

 _Will need John tonight. Tell him to be on time. SH_ , said the message on the screen. 

John groaned and rolled his eyes. “We’ll need another talk about privacy, it seems. If he thinks I’m his lapdog, that all he needs it to snap his fingers and I’ll come running…”

“Yes, you will; and you _love_ it,” Mary interrupted. “Go and have a shower; you look like you need it. And wear your brown leather jacket; I don’t want you to look like somebody from Sherlock’s homeless network next to those fancy suits of his.”

“You’re very… _accepting_ about this,” Sarah said when John vanished to the bathroom upstairs.

“About Sherlock intruding in our lives?” Mary clarified. “Yes, I am. I have no other choice if I want to keep John. I can’t compete with what they had… what they still have. It’s unique. So I’m beating Sherlock in the one area where _he_ won’t stand a chance against me.”

“W-what’s that?” Molly asked, mildly shocked by the mere idea of _anyone_ beating Sherlock in _anything_.

“Social graces,” Mary replied smiling.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
And so, shortly before 7 p.m, John was sitting with Sherlock at a small table in the front window of _Simpson’s_ – another one of the numerous restaurants where Sherlock could dine for free, due to some past favour done to the owner – looking down at the rushing stream of life in the Strand, listening to Sherlock’s report about his visit at Vernon Lodge.

He _was_ wearing the brown leather jacket, of course.

“I hope Johnson will find something,” Sherlock finished his story. “Some really nasty secret that we can use to discredit the Baron in Violet’s eyes.”

“But if she won’t accept what’s already known, why should any fresh discovery of yours change her mind?” John asked doubtfully. Sherlock shrugged.

“Violet is, in many things, like Mummy, They have their own, twisted view on things. Murder might be condoned or explained, yet some smaller offence might rankle. Actually, she does have a lot in common with the Baron, too. They both have an affability that’s more deadly than the violence of more primitive people. In their elegant, sophisticated ways they’re both ruthless and dangerous.”

“The Baron certainly gave you a fair warning,” John said, feeling increasingly worried.

Sherlock nodded. “And he should be taken seriously. He’s the sort of man who says rather less than he means.”

“Must you interfere then?” John asked. “Does it matter if he marries the girl?”

“You mean despite the fact that he undoubtedly murdered his last wife?” Sherlock asked back. “I should say it matters very much – at least for Violet’s father. And then there’s Mummy, of course. We shouldn’t forget about Mummy.”

John shot him a bewildered look. “What has your mother to do with all this?”

“Violet is for Mummy the daughter she never had,” Sherlock explained dryly. “When Mycroft was born, Father was very pleased to finally have an heir. Mummy… not so much. She wanted a daughter. And when I was born, seven years later… well, let’s just say that she never got over her disappointment. She’d never forgive me if I allowed Violet to marry the Baron. She’s been her only consolation for not having a daughter of her own.”

Well, that certainly explained some of the palpable tension between Lady Holmes and her sons; not to mention Mycroft’s desperate – and ill-concealed – efforts to please her. It also explained Sherlock’s open resentment – unlike Mycroft, he didn’t address their mother as ‘Mummy’ – and his adamant refusal to attend to family gatherings, unless there was absolutely no way to avoid them.

“Well, that’s… that’s a bit not good,” John offered lamely.

Sherlock shrugged. “It’s irrelevant. Anyway, if you’ve finished your coffee you should come home to Baker Street with me. Johnson should be there with his report soon.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
John agreed, eager to learn what Shinwell Johnson might have found out, and so they returned to Baker Street without delay. Mrs Hudson greeted him in delight; she still missed him, despite his frequent visits. They chatted for a few minutes before John was ready to climb the steps to the living room upstairs.

Shinwell Johnson was already waiting for them, under the watchful eye of Billy; a huge, red-faced man, built like a brick shithouse and of a disposition that went with his looks. His small, deep-set dark eyes, however, belied that first impression, revealing a shrewd and quick mind under the rough surface.

And he was not alone. Beside him on the couch was a young woman just this side of thirty, John’s experienced eyes told him, although, by the skeletal looks of her, she could have been of any age between twenty and forty. Her straw blonde hair was pulled back into a spiky ponytail, emphasizing the hollowness of her unnaturally pale face, with parchment-thin skin stretched too tightly over the protruding cheekbones. There were dark smudges under her wide blue eyes; dark enough that not even the generously applied make-up could fully conceal them. She was positively waif-like, almost emaciated, and the needle marks on her arms spoke clearly about the reason.

“This is Miss Kitty Winter,” Shinwell Johnson waved at her with a large, tattooed paw. “She knows things of the man you’re after, Mr ‘olmes… but she’d better speak for herself. Found her within an hour of yer message.”

“I’m easy to find,” the young woman said bitterly, giving them the pale shadow of a once bright smile. 

Her voice was high-pitched, almost child-like, the educated tones still audible under the overlaying street accent she must have adopted in recent years. It showed a sad contrast to her ruined looks, aged prematurely due to the drug abuse and by the methods she used to get her daily fix.

“Hell, London gets me every time,” she continued in a self-deprecating manner. “You see, we’re old mates, Porky Shinwell and me. But I never thought he’d be helping me to pay back that monster one day.”

“I assume you’re speaking of Baron Gruner,” Sherlock said.

The young woman laughed. It had an almost hysterical overtone, and John wondered if she was high or simply a bit loony – or both.

“Oh, yes, the _Lügenbaron_ ,” she said. “Everyone falls for his lies, until it’s too late. And then, they either end up dead or like me, _wishing_ they were dead.” She leaned forward, her eyes burning with an intensity that bordered on madness. “I’ve heard of you, Sherlock Holmes. Who in England has not? I know you can see through all the lies – who if not you? And if I can help to put that beast where he belongs, I’m yours to use in any way that could lead to his downfall. _Any_ way at all!”

“I suppose that you, too, have some unfinished business with Mr Gruner then,” Sherlock said. She stiffened defensively.

“No need to go into my past, Mr Holmes. That’s neither here nor there. Let’s just say that Adelbert Gruner made me what I am. And I’d do anything if I could only pull him into the same abyss where he has pushed so many.”

 _Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned_ , John thought, seeing her white, set face, her blazing eyes, her determination to destroy the man who had destroyed her.

Not that he’d blame her for her hatred. What she’d become was all too obvious: a drug addict, surely; perhaps also a prostitute, selling herself for the next fix, if her suggestive clothing was any indication. And the small red veins marking her nose, half-heartedly concealed by powder that urgently needed retouching, spoke of a drinking habit as well.

Just a few years ago she’d been a pretty young girl. Now she was a wreck beyond repair, and all this because she chose the wrong man. It was simply not fair!

However, both her name and her features seemed vaguely familiar to John. Not from a personal encounter; he was fairly sure they’d never met before. It was something he’d heard years ago, probably back in Afghanistan – but _what_?

Well, if he _had_ heard about it in Afghanistan, Bill Murray would know. Bill had been a bottomless well of home-related gossip; even kept a record about the more interesting cases, stating that one needed to be up-to-date.

“Excuse me for a moment,” John said and left the room. He had some research to do .

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
He climbed the second flight of stairs to his old bedroom. Sherlock had kept it untouched, for practical reasons as he always said, so that John could sleep there should a case last well into the night. John rarely did so, preferring to go home to Mary, but he still kept some of his stuff there.

Like his old laptop. Despite it practically being a dinosaur by now, it was still internet-compatible. _And_ it contained all the data for their old cases, should they ever need them and should Sherlock have deleted them from his Mind Palace.

He booted up the trusted old thing and while waiting for it to come sluggishly alive, he sent Bill Murray a text.

_What do you know about a Miss Kitty Winter? JW_

Bill, who hated texting, called him back as expected.

“I don’t know anyone by that name,” he said. “Not personally, at least. But if the name came up due to one of your cases… can it be about the disappearance of Major Winter’s only daughter?”

“Probably,” John felt his pulse quickening like that of a hound on the right track of the game. “When was _that_?”

“Some ten years ago,” Bill replied after a bit of thinking. “I was on home leave; the city was full of ‘Wanted’ posters with her picture and her father begging for a hint, should anybody see her.”

Yes, that _was_ it! Now John could remember. He’d been in Kandahar at that time, of course, so he’d never seen the posters. But Bill had brought them a whole bunch of illustrated magazines from his leave; that must have been where he’d seen the girl’s photo.

Which reminded him of another thing about that tragic case.

“Didn’t Major Winter die shortly after her daughter’s disappearance?” he asked.

“Yep, he did, the poor sod,” Bill replied. “Some training exercise gone wrong in the Gulf or whatnot. MP never figured out how or why. But if you ask me, he used it as a chance to top himself. He loved his little girl like only a hard-arsed old soldier could. He never got over her loss.”

“Yes,” John said slowly. “Yes, that would be a very plausible answer, wouldn’t it?”

“But you don’t believe it, right?” Bill teased.

“I’m not sure,” John confessed. “I mean, Major Winter came from a wealthy family, didn’t he?”

“Son of some rich industrialist, yeah,” Bill, of course, was infallible when it came to Army-intern gossip. “His father wasn’t happy about him joining the Army, but in the end paid him off in cash and left the family business to his other son, apparently. The usual thing to do in such cases.”

“Exactly,” John said. “So, if the Major is dead and his daughter is disappeared… who got all that money?”

There was a long pause on Bill’s end of the connection.

“Damned if I know,” he finally said. “But it’s a good question. A very good question indeed. Do you want me to stretch out my antennae a bit? Ask some questions? Somebody of the old Army lads might have heard something.”

“No,” John said, more sharply than intended; then he immediately apologised. “Sorry, I’m a bit tense right now. Sherlock’s on a really big case; it might hinder him if we stirred up the muddy waters before he’s ready.”

“All right,” Bill sounded a little reluctant, understandably. “But if he does solve the case I’m the first to hear the story. Deal?”

“Deal,” John hung up, sat down on his old bed, balanced the laptop on his knees and began to search for articles about Kitty Winter’s mysterious disappearance – and about the no less mysterious death of Major Samuel Winter.


	8. What Happened To Major Winter?

**CHAPTER 07 – WHATEVER HAPPENED TO MAJOR WINTER?**

**September 5th 2014**

When he returned to the living room an hour later, their visitors were gone and Sherlock was sitting in his chair, having assumed his characteristic thinking pose. He looked up when John entered.

“Well?” he demanded. “What have you found out about Miss Winter? _Or_ about the death of her father?”

“What makes you think I have found out anything?” John asked. “Or that I’d even try?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Are you challenging my intelligence, John? I might have been freshly released from that disgusting rehab clinic where Mycroft had me imprisoned for six months, but even I took notice of the mysterious disappearance of Major Winter’s daughter; and of the equally mysterious death of the Major himself. I assume you’ve contacted one of your old army _buddies_ ,” he practically spat the word, as if it had left a bad taste in his mouth,” to get more information.”

“And you’d be right, as usual,” John replied, good-naturally ignoring Sherlock’s contempt ( _jealousy_ , Mary insisted whenever they were discussing he topic) of his Army friends.

“Of course I am; I’m never wrong,” Sherlock announced haughtily. “So, did you find out anything useful?”

The obvious doubt in his tone would have insulted anyone else but John had long learned not to take such things personally.

“I think so,” he said. “Miss Kitty Winter disappeared a bit more than ten years ago. She went to Europe on a holiday trip and never returned. The police investigation could track her travelling route as far as Palermo; then she vanished into thin air. Her father left no stone unturned, but…”

“But none of the private investigators he hired could find a trace of the girl, yes, I know,” Sherlock interrupted impatiently. “Spare me the boring details, John; they’re common knowledge by now.”

John shrugged. “Well, you _asked_ what I found, didn’t you? Anyway, Major Winter died some four months later, under circumstances that are still not entirely clear.”

“Boring,” Sherlock interrupted again. “Tell me something I _don’t_ know already!”

“How about this then?” John turned his laptop, so that Sherlock could see the more than nine years old sensationalist article from the _Daily Mail_ on the screen.

The title announced in big, fat letters:  
MYSTERIOUSLY VANISHED HEIRESS COLLECTS HER COPIOUS INHERITANCE

“Look at the date,” John said. Sherlock did as he was told.

“Twenty-ninth of July, two thousand and four,” he murmured. “Nine and a half years ago. Five months after Miss Winter’s disappearance.”

“And less than a month after Major Winter’s mysterious death,” John added. “The Major very conveniently dies, his daughter reappears briefly, lays on the table the documents that prove her identity beyond doubt, collects the money she’s entitled to as her father’s only heir, and then disappears again. A bit much of a coincidence if you ask me.”

“Really, I don’t,” Sherlock replied. “Especially considering the fact that Major Winter had been bought out of _Winter Enterprises_ upon joining the army for a seven-digit sum; and not on the lowest end of that scale.”

“How can you possibly know _that_?” John asked. As far as he knew, banks were not supposed to give such information away to third persons.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock explained succinctly. “What happened to the money, I wonder, though. Miss Winter clearly no longer has it… oh!”

“ _What_?” John watched in amusement as Sherlock launched Google with single-minded determination, searching for possible information about Vernon Lodge.

“Here it is!” he said triumphantly. “Baron Gruner bought Vernon Lodge a little more than nine years ago. The reconstruction of its original form took almost seven years and has only recently been finished.”

“And surely swallowed Miss Winter’s inheritance,” John began to understand. “Add his expensive hobbies and you’ll have a man with almost constant need for money. Lots of it.”

“Exactly!” Sherlock agreed, his eyes gleaming with excitement. “Oh, John, can’t you see the beauty of it? The meticulous planning that went into this complex crime? First, he seduces the daughter. Then he gets rid of the father – I have no doubt that Major Winter’s death was neither an accident nor suicide. Then he lets the daughter collect the millions… for him, of course. And finally, he gets rid of the daughter, too; and that in a way that makes her too ashamed to press charges against him. Oh, brilliant!”

John gave his best friend a look that was equal parts of fondness, disappointment and exasperation. It was a look he had had to administer quite a few times in the last five years.

“Nope,” he said, “I can’t find anything I’d call beautiful in using and discarding people for one’s own advantage. Or brilliant. Sorry. I just can’t.”

“But John, can’t you see it?” Sherlock sounded decidedly hurt; something John wouldn’t have expected. “This is the first time I’ve found an adversary that might be my match. Well, the first time since… since Moriarty.”

“Oh, I can see _that_ all right,” John replied slowly. “And that’s what worries me, Sherlock. Every time you get so excited about a criminal mastermind, bad things tend to happen. People tend to get hurt… or killed.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, John!” Sherlock huffed indignantly. “And stop feeding Billy such nonsense; he’s nearly as bad as you are. He has certainly started _sounding_ like you; no need for the two of you to gang up on me.”

“We don’t,” John said. “In fact, I haven’t talked to Billy for weeks. If he’s worried, he’s come to it on his own. That should give you the basic idea.”

“The basic idea about _what_?” Sherlock huffed again. “That you two are the worst mother hens this side of Mycroft?”

“Actually, I meant the fact that you need a constant minder or else you’ll get carried away and endanger yourself and everyone around you; but you can take it any way you like,” John replied dryly. “Now, are you going to tell me what else _you_ found out from Miss Winter or should I guess?”

The cold glare Sherlock gave him (one that could have frozen over a volcano on a hot day) told him that the detective could spot an evasive maneuver when he saw one. Even one that was much subtler than John’s rather clumsy efforts to change the topic. 

But, predictably, Sherlock could not resist the urge to show off, and soon John was scribbling down into in his trusted notebook – the #18 one since he’d first assisted his friend with the pink lady’s case.

“Miss Winter was not the first of Gruner’s victims,” Sherlock explained. “Nor was she the only one, not even when they were still together, it seems. She said that Gruner _collects women and takes pride in his collection, as some men collect moths or butterflies_. Those were her exact words; unnecessarily dramatic ones, of course, but most likely true.”

“Wealthy women, I suppose,” John said. Sherlock nodded.

“Yes, but wealth alone wouldn’t do for him. They also have to be beautiful, to satisfy his sense of aesthetics. And he apparently keeps records of his… _conquests_ , the way a passionate hunter would collect trophies to display them on the wall.”

“Records?” John echoed. “You mean compromising photos on a camera phone as Irene Adler did?”

“Oh, nothing so mundane!” Sherlock’s eyes gained that manic gleam again that always made John nervous. “It seems that he’s got a _book_. Can you imagine it? A real, old-fashioned, down-to-earth diary, bound in brown leather, sealed with an old-fashioned look, and the arms of the Grunewald barons emblazoned on the front cover in gold. Just like in Victorian times. Such traditional pieces are still available in small numbers, you know. They’re quite beautiful, hand-made and very expensive.”

“And you know that… how exactly?” John asked. He had a hard time to imagine Sherlock keeping a hand-written diary.

Sherlock shrugged. “Mummy gave us one each, Mycroft and me, on our respective eighteenth birthdays. I don’t know what Mycroft did with his – probably collected his favourite cake recipes and had them copied into it by a professional calligrapher – but mine served quite well as a record book for my experiments. Until the unfortunate day when I tossed over a glass of sulphuric acid and it landed on the leather cover. Not much was left of it after that.”

John shook his head in exasperation. Only Sherlock could be so careless – and so ignorant – as to destroy a piece of excellent craftsmanship by accidentally throwing acid at it.

“So, the Baron keeps his photos in this book then?” he asked, trying to steer the conversation back to the actual case.

“That and more,” Sherlock replied. “Snapshots, names, details – everything about every woman he’d ever had an affair with, including the sums of money he is still receiving from them.”

“Money? From his old flames?”

“Yes, money, obviously. He didn’t kill them all; even our hopelessly incompetent police would have noticed _that_. No, he has a broad scale of ex-affairs who financially support him… in exchange for his discretion.”

“And not one of those women has thought of getting the police on his case?” John shook his head again. “Are they all insane?”

“They’re _rich_ , John,” Sherlock corrected. “Rich and most of them coming from old, respected families. You can imagine, I assume, what the press would do if they could get hold of only a few of those photos? They’d tear the women to bloody rags.”

John had to admit that _that_ was true. Sherlock’s own fate had clearly proven how ruthless the press could be.

“Besides,” Sherlock added, “I think there actually had been one or two who’d threatened the Baron with the police. According to Miss Winter, he sometimes spoke of them in an almost gentle manner; only to add something like _She died within the month_.”

“So there were other murders than just his latest wife,” John said slowly.

Sherlock nodded. “Undoubtedly.”

“And nobody took any notice? That’s a bit hard to believe.”

“Not when they happened in different countries and the Baron wasn’t directly involved in the actual killings.”

“Like in the case of Major Winter,” John realised. “It’s not that hard to arrange an accident during a drill where people are already using sharp ammunition. He must have his own minions to do the dirty work, like Moriarty had.”

“That’s the eternal dilemma of a crime lord,” Sherlock mused. “They can’t rise to real influence without an extensive network in the background. But every organisation is only as strong as its weakest link. That’s why I often succeed where Mycroft’s minions fail; cause I work alone. Well… mostly alone.”

“Have you ever told him that?” John laughed.

“Oh, many times,” Sherlock waved generously. “Until he finally hired Anthea.”

“She calls herself Allison in these days,” John reminded him.

“Still with the letter A, though,” Sherlock said. “No imagination.”

“But she’s very efficient,” John replied. “Good thing that Mycroft isn’t really a criminal mastermind, then, isn’t it?”

“Close enough,” Sherlock returned, and they grinned in understanding over the long-standing joke between them.

If Mycroft was watching them through the surveillance cameras, he was probably not so amused.

“So, the book,” John then said. “If we could somehow get our hands on it, could we use it as evidence against the Baron?”

“Apparently so,” Sherlock answered. “We must give it a try in any case. According to Miss Winter, it used to be kept in a secret drawer of some old bureau in his inner study – which opens from the outer study, which again opens from the foyer where he chose to talk to me; the one displaying his Chinese crockery.”

“ _Used_ to be,” John emphasised. “There’s no guarantee it’s still there. When did Miss Winter flee from Vernon Lodge?”

“Some three years ago; and Yes, I know what you’re about to say, John, Gruner could have moved it anywhere. But why should he? It’s a perfectly safe hiding place, and the study has its own, independent alarm system.”

“Cause Miss Winter knows about it,” John pointed out the obvious.

Sherlock shook his head. “He was stoned drunk when he showed her the book; it’s unlikely that he’d remember.”

“But not impossible,” John insisted.

“No, but this is the only evidence we can have against him, assuming that we manage to get it.”

“And that’s what I don’t understand,” John said. “Why would anyone keep a book like that when there are so many better and safer ways to store compromising material: camera phones, discs, USD sticks… Why taking such risk?”

“Oh, but digital storage is immaterial,” Sherlock replied. “It doesn’t give him the satisfaction of physically holding all those lives he’s destroyed in his hands. Trophies, John, as I’ve already told you.”

“Yeah, you have,” John shook his head. “And frankly, I find the way you can get in his head disturbing.”

Sherlock dismissed his concern. “You worry too much.”

“And you don’t worry nearly enough,” John returned. “Anyway, I know better than trying to talk sense into you by now. What’s the next step in your cunning plan? Breaking into Vernon Lodge and trying to find that nefarious book of his?”

“Eventually,” Sherlock replied blithely. “We’ll have to prepare ourselves a bit for that first, though.”

“I was _joking_ , Sherlock!” John said in exasperation.

Sherlock have him a tight smile. “I was _not_.”

The manic gleam, in his eyes made John groan.

“Great, that’s just great. We haven’t been caught red-handed by the police often enough, have be? What’s a bit of breaking and entering among friends, even though the house is as impenetrable as Fort Knox.”

“No house is impenetrable, John; not for me,” Sherlock declared with unshakable confidence.

“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?” John asked sarcastically.

The sarcasm, as always, was lost on Sherlock. He just blinked in honest confusion. “Why would I want you to feel better about this?”

“Right; why start now,” John sighed. “So, what’s that insane plan of yours?”

“Well, I’ll have to work out some details, obviously, but basically, you’re going to distract the Baron while I’ll search his inner study for the book,” Sherlock explained.

“Distract the Baron,” John repeated slowly. “Me.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Of course. And how am I supposed to do that?” John demanded. “How am I supposed to get into the house in the first place?”

“By learning everything you can about Chinese pottery,” Sherlock replied as if _that_ would be the most natural thing in the world.

In the strange, private world in which _he_ lived, it probably was, too. Unfortunately, John had a somewhat stronger grip on reality.

“You want me to learn everything about Chinese pottery,” he repeated.

“Yes, as soon as you can,” Sherlock said. “I suggest you ask Ms Acquah, the director of the _National Antiquities Museum_ for help.”

John shook his head in tolerant amusement.

“Right; why not? I haven’t had a run-in with the Chinese mafia for years.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, John,” Sherlock acquired his usual superior air. “Compared with _that_ this will be a piece of cake!”

“That,” John told him darkly,” is one of the famous Last Words.”


	9. Concerning Pottery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the dialogue is loosely based on John’s blog entry re: The Blind Banker.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

**CHAPTER 08 – CONCERNING POTTERY**

**September 6th 2014**

“All right, that is _one_ story you never told me,” Mary Watson (née Morstan) said, sitting down with her other half at the kitchen table for a shared breakfast the next morning.

John gave her a wry smile. “You can read it up in my blog, you know.”

“I have,” Mary poured tea into both cups – in her opinion mugs were something for coffee; tea ought to be served in proper cups. She’d even brought a nice old Worchester set into the marriage, just so that she could enforce the new rule. John didn’t mind, either way. “I prefer to hear it from _you_.”

“All right,” John had learned _not_ to argue with his wife over such things; besides, he liked the way she listened to his stories with wide-eyed excitement. It was quite the ego boost, and he could use _that_. “As you know, it all started with an e-mail Sherlock got from an old schoolmate of his.”

“That slimy floor manager guy from the _Shad Sanderson Bank_ you introduced me to last month, right?” Mary asked with a disgusted grimace. “Was this the day when you had that row with the chip and pin machine at Tesco’s and decided to get a job?”

John stared at her with a frown. “You know about _that_ , too?”

“I told you: I’ve read every single entry in your blog,” she replied. “I wanted to learn who you are; what makes you tick. By the way, that rant about the chip and pin machine? It was hilarious. So were the comments.”

“Well, yeah, they installed the bloody machines while I was away to Afghanistan,” John said, a bit defensively. “I still don’t see what they could possibly be good for – if anything.”

“Nobody does, love,” Mary patted his arm in an encouraging way. “Their only purpose I can see is that they enable some shady government agency to keep tab on our shopping habits.”

John laughed at that. “I’d never have taken you for one of those paranoid conspiracy theorists.”

“I wasn’t,” Mary assured him. “But then you introduced me to Mycroft Holmes. Since then, I search the flat for surveillance cameras every day.”

“Ever found any?” John grinned, his admiration for his wife getting up another notch or two.

“At first, yeah,” Mary grinned back at her. “After I’d made rude gestures at whoever might have been watching and destroyed a few of them with a sledgehammer, though, they seemed to disappear. Either he gave up, or his minions actually learned their job. Nonetheless, I still check the most obvious places each day. Better safe than sorry.”

“Why the obvious places? You say yourself that they’re… well, _obvious_.”

“Yeah, but they’re also within easy reach,” Mary explained. “They are the places where a patient – or somebody disguised as a patient, or a plumber, or a gas worker or whatnot – can quickly and easily plant such things.”

“True,” John conceded. “That still leaves the other places. They _can_ get into the flat while we’re both away and work undisturbed.”

“But those places won’t give them half as good a view as the obvious ones,” Mary pointed out practically. “And I check those places, too, once a week, just in case.”

John shook his head, laughing. “That’s it, no more James Bond marathons for you, Mrs Watson. They make you grossly paranoid.”

“That’s _Doctor_ Watson for you, Captain,” Mary said sternly.

“Nope, _Doctor_ Watson is me,” John replied. “You’re Doctor _Morstan_.”

“Then call me that, will you?”

“I could; but I kinda like the sound of _Mrs_ Watson. It means that you’re mine. And vice versa.”

“Sap,” Mary tossed the bag of scones, freshly bought from the bakery on the corner, in his direction; aside from the china cups for tea, they didn’t stand on ceremony when it was just the two of them. “Well, eat up already and tell me the story. I want to know all about it, even the things that aren’t in your blog. _Especially_ the things that aren’t in your blog.”

“I thought Sarah had told you the story long ago,” John stuffed a buttered scone, generously slathered with his favourite strawberry jam, into his face and allowed himself a moment of pure, unspoiled pleasure.

Wedded bliss had many forms, and he appreciated each and every one.

“She told me about you falling asleep on your first day in the job,” Mary followed suit, though with decidedly more elegance. “And how Sherlock kept interfering with your dates. And how she got kidnapped and nearly killed by the Chinese mafia because those idiots thought _you_ were Sherlock.”

“Yeah, flattery isn’t all what people pretend it would be,” John agreed. “Hence the entry with both our photos on the blog. For further reference.”

“ _Flattery_?” Mary raised a finely groomed eyebrow. “Let me tell you a secret, love: not every woman falls for tall, dark, and bad-mannered. Some of us actually like the good things to come in small packages.” She leaned over the table and kissed him, licking the spot of jam off the corner of his mouth in the process. “In small… brave… cuddly packages,” she added, punctuating each word with quick little kisses.

“Keep this up and there won’t be any story today,” John warned. “Not that I’d mind, under normal circumstances, but I’ll have to make a trip to the _National Antiquities Museum_ after work, and that could take some time.”

“Why would you want to go there?”

“To talk to the director about ancient Chinese pottery.” John considered things for a moment, then grinned at his wife in his most winning manner; which, considering the fabled Watson charm, was quite a feat. “Fancy coming with me? I’ll tell you the story on the way; can even show you some of the crime scenes.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The _National Antiquities Museum_ was a large, Neo-Classical building of white stone, built somewhere between the beginning of the twentieth century and the First World War. It had a quadratic layout with four parallel wings and a large, tin-covered dome above its grand, colonnaded entrance.

“You know, I haven’t been here since the Blind Banker case,” John mused as they entered the circular central hall that lay directly under the dome, with the life-sized bronze statue of Pallas Athena, the protector goddess of all cities, sitting in the exact centre of it. 

Directly across the hall, opposite the main entrance, a wide marble staircase led to the upper level. Facing the entrance, in a wall niche stood another life-sized bronze statue: that of a practically naked Perseus, holding up the severed head of the Gorgon.

“Nice properties,” Mary muttered in appreciation, eyeing the statue with interest. “Although rather modest in some areas. Clearly, the Ancient Greeks didn’t think that size would matter so much.”

John felt his ears burning. It was ridiculous, really. As a soldier, he’d heard worse things. _Much_ worse things, wherever the guys had been frustrated about their sex life (or the lack thereof), which had practically been all the time. Still, whenever Mary indulged in her own version of dirty talk, he was in equal measures embarrassed and turned on.

“Sorry, love,” Mary wasn’t Sherlock of course (nobody was), but she was a very observant person in her own way. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. Not when there’s no suitable broom closet within reach anyway,” she added wickedly; then became serious again. “You were talking about the Blind Banker case, I believe.”

John nodded, forcing his mind back away from the temptation and to the old case.

“Er, yes. If you read my blog entry, you’ll remember that it was a huge smuggling operation. They were trading in stolen Chinese antiquities, using people who travelled a lot – a banker, a journalist, probably others, too – to bring them into the UK. Delivery was through this Chinese emporium on Shaftesbury Avenue, the _Lucky Cat_. It was a shop full of tat, so actually a very good dropping place. But it was there that we realised what all those yellow graffiti tags were.”

“Old Chinese numbers,” Mary supplied, remembering that particular detail from John’s blog, who nodded again.

“Yep. Sherlock then noticed that nobody had been in the flat above the shop for a few days… but that the window was open. So, of course, he just had to break in and have me standing outside while he explored.”

“And nearly getting himself killed again,” Mary added.

“That, too,” John agreed. “In any case, it turned out the flat belonged to Soo Lin.”

“The woman who worked in this museum,” Mary said.

“She was really brilliant, you know,” John said with a sad little smile. “What she didn’t know about those old Chinese teapots probably wasn’t even worth knowing. And hiding right here, although she had every reason to fear for her life, so she could continue looking after some of those teapots that hadn’t been fully restored yet… It was absurd; but also strangely beautiful. A real shame that they killed her, too. Imagine that: four people dead, just because a bloody hairpin! An Empress’s hairpin, granted, but still a hairpin.”

“If I remember correctly, it was a hairpin worth nine million pounds, though,” Mary pointed out. John shrugged.

“Still not worth killing for it; or getting killed.”

“Few things are,” Mary replied. “So, what does this have to do with the reason why we’re here today?”

“Cause Sherlock needs me to learn everything I can about Chinese pottery in the shortest possible time,” John grinned. “And this is the best place for that.”

Mary gave him a jaundiced look. “I see he’s taught you the wisdom of obedience.”

“Through long exposure, yeah,” John laughed. “Doing what he demands from you is easier than watching him sulk all day.”

“Hmmm,” Mary murmured thoughtfully. “I might utilise that training later.”

John reddened again and, in a hopeless effort to hide it, turned to one of the museum guards. “Excuse me, sir; can we speak with Ms Acquah, the director of this establishment?”

The guard looked at them uncertainly. “Well, I don’t know…”

“Tell her that Doctor John Watson would like to speak with her, on behalf of Sherlock Holmes,” John said in a friendly but firm manner.

After a moment of hesitation, the guard scurried away and Mary gave her husband a proud grin.

“Well done, Captain. I see you still have it in you to make people jump at your orders.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Ms Acquah – or rather _Doctor Acquah_ – turned out to be an attractive woman in her mid-forties, with mahogany skin, a head full of short, woolly hair, wearing a knee-length dress with an eye-wateringly bright pattern and a double row of fake pearls of the size of walnuts. The outfit still looked good on her somehow.

She also seemed to remember John, because she greeted him in a friendly enough fashion.

“Dr Watson, how good to see you again!” she shook John’s hand enthusiastically. “And this is…?”

“My wife, Dr Mary Morstan,” John introduced them to each other.

“Pleased to meet you,” Ms Acquah shook hands with Mary, too. “So, what can I do for you… or for Mr Holmes?”

“For Sherlock, actually,” John admitted. “He wants me to learn everything about ancient Chinese pottery; preferably yesterday, or the day before. I thought you could perhaps give me a crash course; or, at least, a list of the most useful websites.”

“I can try, although you’d be better off with Andy Galbraith, but he’s got the day off,” Ms Acquah said. “But why do you need to learn about Chinese pottery in such haste?”

“I’ve no idea,” John confessed a little sheepishly. “Only that it has something to do with Baron Gruner and his famous private collection.”

“You know the man?” Mary asked, seeing the museum director’s expression hardening upon hearing that name.

Ms Acquah nodded. “One of those obscenely rich private collectors who make sport of snatching irreplaceable antiquities from before our noses, just because they can mobilise great amounts of money a lot faster than any museum,” she looked at John. “At the time you visited us because of poor Soo Lin, Crispian had two Ming vases up for auction, from Chenghua. We badly wanted them for our collection; unfortunately, the Baron was faster. Again. I’d love to help you get him out of the equation any way I can.”

“You can begin by teaching us the basics,” John said.

Ms Acquah grinned at him. “You must understand, I’m not _the_ expert; but I’m a good enough amateur. Sit down, both of you. We’ll have tea; and then I’ll give you everything I have on the topic.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
John and Mary accepted both offers thankfully, and in the next two hours – until the museum closed – they were given chapter and verse about Chinese ceramics. They learned about all the hallmarks of the great artist decorators, were treated to the mystery of cyclical dates, the marks of the Hung-wu and the beauties of the Yung-lo, the writings of Tang-ying, and the glories of the primitive period of the Sung and the Yuan. Amongst a thousand other details, really hard to remember for anyone who didn’t work in a museum. Fortunately, Mary had the presence of mind to record everything with her phone.

For somebody who considered herself an amateur, Ms Acquah was certainly well-informed.

“I’m just a nut for Chinese pottery,” she admitted, slightly embarrassed. “It has nothing to do with my actual area of expertise, which is the red-figured Corinthian amphorae, just a private passion. I even bought that dratted book of Baron Gruner’s, and I must admit – as much as it pains me – that it isn’t half bad. Surprisingly accurate, in fact, considering that it’s written by an amateur.”

“Do you think we could borrow it?” Mary asked. “We’ll bring it back unharmed, I promise; but it might help us to understand his special interests better.”

“Anything that helps getting him out of our hair,” Ms Acquah selected a few other books as well for them. “These should be helpful, too. And I’ll have Andy Galbraight email you a list of websites with more general knowledge as soon as he comes in tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” John smiled at her winningly. “You’ve been a fount of useful information, Ms Acquah.”

“My pleasure, Doctor Watson,” she replied; then she winked at Mary. “You’re a lucky woman, Doctor Morstan, you know that?”

“Oh, yes,” Mary beamed at the older woman. “I know that indeed. Well, c’mon, John, we still have a lot to learn about pottery.”

“Right, let’s go,” John took the books under his arm. “Thank you again, Ms Acquah, we’ll bring your books back as soon as the case is solved.”

“ _And_ I get the whole story told,” Ms Acquah said warningly.

John grinned. “Yeah, that, too.”


	10. The Princess Bride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the dialogue is loosely based the novel. Violet Merville is “played” by Katie McGrath, only somewhat older.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 09 – THE PRINCESS BRIDE**

**September 6th 2014**

As a rule, Sherlock disliked asking – or even passively accepting – any help from his brother. 

No; _dislike_ was a way too tame word for that. He positively _hated_ it, and not just because doing so put him even deeper in Mycroft’s debt. He was proud of his independence, proud of the fact that he managed to do things on his own and at the speed of his own choice.

Mostly, that is.

Sometimes, however, he had no other choice than allow his brother to meddle. Especially if Mummy was involved somehow. Like now. It was the unwritten law in the Holmes family that one went the greatest lengths humanly possible to avoid getting Mummy upset.

Regarding the plans of Baron Gruner to marry Violet Merville, the only way to avoid upsetting Mummy was to solve the case in record time and get rid of the Baron. Permanently. To that end, though, Sherlock needed insight into Gruner’s finances, and the quickest way was to have Mycroft’s minions do the sniffling.

Oh, he _could_ have hacked into Gruner’s accounts, given enough time. Or have one of the incredibly talented young hackers of the homeless network do the dirty work. But time was of essence here, and why waste it when Mycroft could have it done by a simple phone call?

Therefore Sherlock swallowed his pride, found out where Mycroft was at the moment – his brother happened to be working from home today – and texted him, telling him that he was about to wisit; and the reason for said visit. He didn’t for a second doubt that Mycroft would be available and more than willing to help. After all, Mycroft was even more concerned about upsetting Mummy than he was – just for different reasons.

So Sherlock fully expected Mycroft to be available and cooperative. What he _didn’t_ expect was that he wouldn’t find him alone.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
When the cab pulled up in front of Mycroft’s pretentious townhouse on Pall Mall, Anthea was already waiting for him, her eyes glued to her BlackBerry, as always.

“Go on in,” she said, without looking at him. “Himself is waiting. And be careful.”

Sherlock frowned. During his three years of absence he’d had to cooperate with Anthea a few times and came to realise that she was more than just a pretty girl in a designer dress. _Much_ more. In truth, she was a strange amalgam of sexy secretary, computer genius, incredibly talented organisator and ninja assassin.

What she _wasn’t_ was somebody who’d waste as much as a second with idle chatter. If she’d chosen to warn him, she must have had a reason. But he knew she wouldn’t tell him any more, so he simply nodded and swept into the house with the usual dramatic swirl of his long coat.

He found Mycroft in the living room on the ground floor – having tea with Violet Merville, of all people. He had to admit that the two made an impressive picture (if one was easily impressed by posh and haughty, that is), with Mycroft in one of his usual pin-striped three-piece suits he preferred to wear at work and Violet in a charcoal grey, tailored trouser suit and a blouse of true silk beneath.

She didn’t seem to be the naïve, lovesick young girl as Sir James had described her; nod that Sherlock, who’d known her from birth on, would ever believe _that_. For starters, Violet wasn’t a young girl anymore. She was beyond thirty and had managed her personal property quite successfully since turning twenty-one. 

Much more successfully than her father had ever done, in fact. She was a ruthless businesswoman who enjoyed the battle as much as she enjoyed the victory, and she looked every bit like one.

She was of middle height, slim and trim like an athlete, with a fair skin even paler than Sherlock’s, and long, pitch-black hair that she wore in a French knot on the nape of her neck. She wasn’t pretty in the traditional sense of the word, but her slightly hawkish features, with the straight black eyebrows, the cold blue eyes and the fine scimitar of her nose, spoke of a lot of self-confidence and a strong character.

For a moment Sherlock wondered who in the Baron’s game was truly the hunter and who the prey.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
When he entered, Mycroft rose from his seat with one of those false smiles that could have induced a saccharine shock in a diabetic.

“Ah, Brother dear,” he said. “How good of you to join us. As you see, we’ve got an unexpected visit from our lovely Cousin Violet.”

“Really, Mycroft, your gift of stating the obvious keeps growing in direct proportionality with the loss of your hair,” Sherlock threw himself into one of the empty armchairs, without bothering to take his coat off. “Or do you believe that my observation skills have completely abandoned me?”

Violet wasn’t actually related to them by blood, of course. They’d grown up calling her Cousin Violet, though, mostly because she spent so much time on the Sherringford Estate (Mummy’s property) as a child. Not that they’d have been close, ever. On the contrary; Sherlock and Violet had always despised each other. Mycroft, of course, had always made a great show of being unfailingly polite to Violet, if only for Mummy’s sake. Not that _that_ could fool anyone, including Mummy. _Or_ Violet.

Still, Violet was apparently shrewd enough to come to Mycroft and try applying pressure, knowing that the only chance to make Mycroft call Sherlock off the baron’s track would be to threaten them with Mummy’s displeasure.

Well, if she thought that Sherlock Holmes could be simply whistled back, she was mistaken. But again, she’d always been more self-confident than her actual abilities would justify. Perhaps that was how she’d walked into Gruner’s trap, with her eyes wide open.

“So, my dear cousin,” Sherlock said, after accepting a cup of tea, and gave her a smile that was as hideously false as Mycroft’s had been, although perhaps a bit less saccharine heavy. “What do we owe the honour of your unexpected visit? It’s a bit surprising, considering that you couldn’t be bothered to visit Mummy during the three years while I was… otherwise occupied.”

He stirred his tea in a distracted manner, leaving it to Mycroft to watch her reaction.

“Not that Mummy would have been particularly upset about my supposed death,” he added nonchalantly, “seeing that she’s always been more interested in you than in either of us. Not even Mycroft’s textbook career and unbroken success could make up for the sad fact that he was born a boy. But one could have expected from somebody like _you_ to be at least a bit more supportive towards the woman who’s wasted all the sentiment she always denied her own sons on you.”

Violet gave him an icy glare that could have frozen Hell over.

“As supportive as _you_ ’ve always been towards your own mother, you mean?” she asked coldly. “I don’t think that _you_ of all people should accuse _me_ of being ungrateful. _I wasn’t_ the one who lived on the street, full of drugs, for months. Or the one who let her believe that I’d killed myself and allowed her to grieve for three years.”

“Well, her grief was certainly far from overwhelming,” Mycroft said dryly. “But I’m sure you haven’t come to discuss with us who of us behaved more badly during Sherlock’s… _absence_.”

“No indeed,” Violet agreed with icy amiability; then she turned to Sherlock. “You’ve been called, I understand, by that old fool Sir James to destroy the reputation of my fiancé, Adelbert Gruner. I assume he was animated to do so by my father. So, in all fairness, I warn you in advance that anything you can say won’t have the slightest effect on my decision.”

“Fair enough,” Sherlock put his untouched tea down and leaned back in his armchair. “So, let’s be honest with each other, cousin dear. Personally, I don’t care if you marry the lowliest tramp from the Soho. I don’t like you any more than you like me, which is not at all, and I couldn’t care less if you ruined your life by marrying a murderer. But Mummy is very fond of you, for some reason; I’m doing this for her. And for all the other women your fine Baron has already destroyed.”

Violet raised an ironic eyebrow.

“Oh, I see that Kitty Winter has already told you her sorry little tale. She does that regularly, the poor wretch, you know. She tells the story everyone who shows even the slightest interest for her drama,” she gave Sherlock a cold, disdainful look. “And we all know how unreliable drug addicts can be, don’t we?”

Sherlock refused to take the bait. “The fact that Miss Winter is on drugs doesn’t change the facts, cousin dear.”

“Facts? What facts?” Violet asked. “She followed Adelbert to Europe voluntarily. It was she who broke up all contact with her father; not that I’d blame her. It was she who collected her inheritance in Italy. She voluntarily gave the money to Adelbert, for the renovation of Vernon Lodge and was happy enough to live there with him for years. No-one forced her to anything. And it was _she_ who left Adelbert, not the other way round.”

“Do you also know _why_ she left her?” Sherlock asked.

Violet shrugged. “I’m aware that Adelbert’s had a somewhat… _stormy_ life, in which he’s incurred a great deal of bitter hatred and lots of unjust aspersions,” she replied. “You’re not the first in a long line of self-important windbags who’s annoyed me with their slander lately; nor will you be the last, I assume. I’m willing to give you – both of you – the benefit of doubt that you mean well, if only to spare your mother’s feelings. But in any case, I want you to understand, once for all, that I love Adelbert and he loves me, and that the opinions of all the world mean no more to me than background noise.”

“Yes, because you’re an idiot,” Sherlock returned coldly. “Miss Winter wasn’t the only one of your Baron’s victims. She was one of the many that he’s seduced, used and ruined; and then thrown into the garbage bin. He’d do the same with you; only that _your_ garbage bin will most likely be the grave, if the fate of his latest wife is any indication.”

“You like to twist things out of context, don’t you?” Violet scowled. “No wonder that nobody wanted to believe you in the Moriarty case. But you’re wasting your time, cousin. I happen to know of several passages in Adelbert’s life in which he became entangled with scheming women who tried to damage his reputation, just like you’re trying to do now. He came out of those cases unharmed, and the intrigant bitches are still paying reparations to him.”

“You mean he’s blackmailing them and thy have no other choice than pay for his silence, or else _their_ reputation would be ruined beyond repair, don’t you?” Mycroft, who’d been informed about Miss Winter’s revelations, asked dryly. “You should watch your tongue, dear. Mummy would be shocked to hear such crude words coming from that pretty mouth of yours.”

Violet shrugged again. “Unlike you, I don’t care a tinker’s curse whether Lady Holmes is happy with me or not. She’s _not_ my mother, and frankly, her obtrusiveness has gone beyond what could still be ignored as an old woman’s folly. This is _my_ life, and I shall do with it as I please; and I won’t allow anyone to tell me what I ought to do with it. Not my father, not Sir James and most certainly not _you_ … or that insufferable, overbearing mother of yours.”

She, too, put down her teacup and rose with that special grace only daughters of good families – those who’d been taught from early childhood how to move properly – could display.

“Thank you for the excellent tea, Cousin Mycroft; as always, only the best of the best. At least one of you still has style. I’d be grateful, though, if you could keep out of my life in the future. Both of you.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“Well,” Mycroft turned back from the window, through which he’d watched Violet Merville get into a cab and be driven away. “That was educational, don’t you think?”

Sherlock nodded, finally shedding his coat and throwing it carelessly over the back of Violet’s abandoned armchair.

“In more than one way, I’d say,” he replied. “So, what do you think? Is she really so blind to the Baron’s true scheme as she appears?”

After a moment of consideration Mycroft shook his head thoughtfully.

“No, I don’t think so. I think she knows a lot more than she’s willing to admit. In fact, I wouldn’t be too surprised if we found out that she’s actually _part_ of some of Gruner’s schemes.”

Sherlock nodded. “It’s possible. She’s always been a calculating bitch; certainly not the innocent little girl Sir James still appears to see in her; although how could he ever miss what she was truly like is beyond me. Usually, he’s a crafty man and a good judge of character.”

“Sentiment,” Mycroft answered disdainfully. “Elderly men tend to see their friend’s children as innocent little angels, unconsciously ignoring the fact that most children are little monsters.”

Sherlock grinned briefly; that was one of the few things about which he and Mycroft were in complete agreement.

“But if she _is_ part of the scheme, it won’t be easy to prove,” he then pointed out.

“No,” Mycroft agreed. “It’s clear that we must plan some fresh opening move; for Sir James’s gambit obviously won’t work. I’ll keep in touch with you while I follow the money trail; perhaps finding out if she and the Baron have known each other longer than Sir James might know wouldn’t be amiss. Have you asked Miss Winter about Violet specifically? She lived with Gruner long enough; she should know.”

Sherlock shook his head. “No; but I will. Though it’s possible that the next move may lie with them rather than with us.”

“In which case you should be very careful,” Mycroft warned. “Gruner won’t play with you like Moriarty did. He’s not interested in playing. He’s interested in _winning_ , and for that he’d do anything. The example of Le Brun should make you realise that, Sherlock.”

“It’s in the interest of us all, then, that he’d be revealed and put in prison, isn’t it?” Sherlock asked with a raised eyebrow. “A pity we can’t ship him over to Belarus somehow. They still have the death penalty.”

Mycroft just shook his head in genuine concern.

“I wish you’d take things more seriously, Sherlock,” he said. “After three years in the underground, fighting on your own – well, mostly on your own – you ought to have realised that not even you are invulnerable.”

Sherlock waved off his concern impatiently.

“Yeah, but it’s more fun this way. Now, have your minions learned anything conclusive about Gruner’s finances? They had two days, for God’s sake, there ought to be results by now, or you should fire the lot of them.”


	11. The Blow Falls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the dialogue is loosely based on the original ACD story.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
**CHAPTER 10 – THE BLOW FALLS**

****September 8th 2014** **

On the next Monday afternoon, John had to answer some house calls. Mary always let him deal with this particular aspect of their shared work because she knew how much he enjoyed getting away from the practice from time to time and moving around the neighbourhood a bit. It was an excellent way to avoid cabin fever – and it had to be done, so they killed two birds with the same stone. 

Today, the cases were relatively simple – mostly old people who were too weak or otherwise unable to go to the practice themselves and needed some tender loving care from their beloved family doctor. Therefore John was in a good mood when he finished his rounds and was finally about to return home. 

Deciding to buy an evening paper for a change (they usually read the morning papers), he went to his old acquaintance, a one-legged vendor, who usually displayed his papers between the Grand Hotel and Charing Cross Station. The exact location changed from day to day, as old Banana Joe was a trusted member of Sherlock’s homeless network and didn’t really have the licence to sell his papers there, but he could always be found somewhere on that stretch. Meanwhile he counted as part of the scenery and the coppers looked the other way, not the least because he slipped them the odd piece of useful information. 

John spotted the old man easily enough – dressed in his pirate costume, complete with a triangular hat and a fake eye-patch, Joe was a distinctive sight – but he was a little surprised to see the cluster of people who all seemed eager to buy a newspaper. Joe’s little business wasn’t so popular as a rule, although the tourists liked to take photographs, so something must have happened while John had been distributing good cheer and encouraging words among his ailing old patients. Something _big_. 

John pushed through the crowd, now more determined on buying a paper himself than before. It might have been something concerning the Baron, in which case Sherlock would be interested. Unless he already knew, which was a distinct possibility, of course. Still, getting the news first-hand could be useful. John had to try, at the very least. 

_What_ he saw when he finally reached old Joe’s mobile news stand, though, was _this_ : 

**MURDEROUS ATTACK UPON SHERLOCK HOLMES**

For several moments, he just stood there, stunned. Then he snatched a paper, ignoring the righteous protests of old Joe, whom he’d forgotten to pay, and stumbled forward into the doorway of a chemist’s shop, currently closed for renovation. He turned the pages impatiently, until he finally found the article itself.

 

**_This morning, Sherlock Holmes, the famous consulting detective, was the victim of a murderous assault, which has left him severely injured. No exact details are available, but the attack seems to have happened about twelve o’clock in Regent Street, outside the Café Royal._ **

**_The attackers are said to be men clad in black denims and hooded sweatshirts, armed with rubber truncheons similar to those used by the police. Mr Holmes was beaten about the head and body, receiving injures, which doctors describe as “serious but not life-threatening”. He was taken to Charing Cross hospital, but afterwards insisted on being transferred to his home in Baker Street._ **

**_Passers-by alerted the police at once. However, the attackers – clearly experienced thugs who did such dirty jobs on a regular basis – escaped by passing through the Café Royal and out into Glasshouse Street behind it…_ **

What followed was some idle speculation whether the attackers could have been associates of the late Jim Moriarty, executing their revenge upon he resurrected detective, but John paid that no attention. He knew it wasn’t true; Sherlock, with the help of Mycroft’s connections and partly with the support of Mycroft’s agents, had successfully eradicated Moriarty’s web during his three-year-absence. Everyone who counted was either in prison or dead.

No, this was clearly Baron Gruner’s handiwork. After all, he _had_ threatened Sherlock with consequences like this.

John fished his phone out of his pocket and called Mary, who was about to close the practice for the day; and who had apparently heard the news already.

“Go to him,” she said. ”Go and find out what really happened and how he’s really doing. And, for God’s sake, _call_ me if you need my help. We’re a team, remember?”

“Yeah, I love you, too,” John replied, which wasn’t really an answer but explained everything anyway.

Then he hung up and went to find a cab.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

John couldn’t tell afterwards _how_ he got to Baker Street. He had a confused recollection of paying the cabbie, then hammering on the front door of 221B like a madman, completely forgetting that he still had his own key, and being left in by a visibly upset Mrs Hudson. 

Billy was nowhere to be seen, and he couldn’t decide whether that was a good thing or a bad thing. 

“How is Sherlock doing?” he asked, every bit as anxious as Mrs Hudson was looking. 

“Some doctor is with him now,” Mrs Hudson replied doubtfully. “A very posh one; Mycroft has sent him.” 

That sounded reassuring. A doctor sent by Mycroft could only be one of the best. Which still didn’t mean that he’d be the best for _Sherlock_ , of course, as Sherlock was a law unto himself. 

“He looks a real fright, though,” Mrs Hudson added, her eyes clouded with worry. “Go up to him; you know how he hates doctors, unless it’s _you_.” 

John knew that all too well – to tell the truth, he didn’t really trust any doctors apart from himself to deal with Sherlock safely. Still, there were cases where he couldn’t properly help him, and this _might_ be such a one. Convincing _Sherlock_ about that would be a different matter, of course. 

He braced himself for the inevitable confrontation, not to mention for the necessity of negotiating between Sherlock and whatever doctor Mycroft might have organised for him at such short notice, and started to climb the stairs leading to the first floor. To his relief, though, the door upstairs opened before he could have made any attempt to join the fray, and down came a distinguished, silver-haired man in his late fifties, whom he immediately recognised as Sir Leslie Oakshott, the famous surgeon. The man who, according to rumours, even had royal patients occasionally. 

_Mycroft never does anything by halves_ , John thought, mildly amused, as he introduced himself to the great man who was only moderately condescending towards him. 

“There’s no immediate danger,” the surgeon explained. “Two lacerated scalp wounds and some considerable bruising. Several stitches have been necessary. Morphine has been injected and quiet is essential, but…” 

“Morphine?” John interrupted, his respect for his famous colleague diminishing rapidly. “Was that wise? He has a history with opiates, and administering morphine could easily cause a relapse.” 

Sir Leslie looked down at him as if he’d accidentally stepped into something _very_ unsavoury. 

“I’m well aware of Mr Holmes’s medical history, and what effects the administering of opiates could cause in a recovering drug addict, _Doctor_ Watson,” he said haughtily. 

The emphasis on John’s title was by no means a sign of respect, quite the contrary. It was a reminder that he knew John couldn’t finish his Core surgical training and thus hadn’t been given a chance to pass the MRCS* exam, which would entitle him to be addressed as _Mister_ Watson, meaning a much higher status in the medical hierarchy. 

As if stopping internal bleeding, extracting shrapnel, sewing up gunshot wounds while under enemy fire didn’t count at all. As if all the lives saved because he’d gone out into the combat zone to retrieve wounded soldiers were all irrelevant. John had to consciously remind himself that punching Sherlock’s doctor would probably be an even worse idea than punching the Chief Superintendent had been. 

“I assure you that the amount of morphine administered was carefully measured and should therefore cause no complications,” Sir Leslie continued in a patronising manner. “But I don’t believe in allowing my patients to suffer considerable pain if I can help it.” 

“And I would whole-heartedly agree with you if the patient were anyone but Sherlock,” John said. “Unfortunately, he doesn’t react to things like other people do – it’s a way of life with him, I’m afraid.” 

“Well, in that case I’ll entrust the patient into your capable hands,” Sir Leslie said, with a significant look at John’s left hand that was slightly trembling. 

“You do that,” John replied coldly. “If it comes to Sherlock Holmes, _I am_ the highest medical authority. He made sure that I’d outrank even Mycroft when it comes to his health, by giving me medical power of attorney. Good day, doctor, and I thank you for your efforts.” 

And with that, John hurried up to the first floor, not wasting a moment longer of his attention on the indignantly spluttering surgeon. 

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

He found Sherlock in his darkened bedroom, wide awake. _Too_ awake for his comfort, although he hoped that it was just the excitement, not a full-blown morphine high. 

The blind was three-quarters down, but one ray of sunlight slanted through and fell directly upon Sherlock’s unnaturally pale face. His eyes were too bright as well; with his thickly bandaged head, he presented a dramatic vision, especially with the crimson patch that had soaked through the white linen compress. 

John sat down on the edge of the bed and took Sherlock’s hand for a sneaky check of his temperature. Those bright eyes could have been a sign of fever, too. 

“It’s all right, John,” Sherlock muttered in a very weak voice. “Don’t look so scared. It’s not as bad as it seems." 

“No,” John agreed grimly. “It’s actually worse. Especially considering that the idiot gave you morphine.” 

“Mycroft’s minions _are_ idiots,” Sherlock whispered hoarsely. “What did you expect?” 

“Somebody with a little more common sense that would justify his renown,” John muttered. “Well, it doesn’t matter anymore. I threw him out. So tell me what the hell happened to you before the morphine wears off and you’ll become even more miserable than you’d have been without it.” 

“Well, you still have the evening paper in your hand, so you obviously already _know_ what happened,” Sherlock replied weakly. “I’m quite good at self-defence, as you know; one of them wouldn’t have been a problem for me. It was the second man that proved too much.” 

“Did you recognise them… either of them?” John asked. 

Sherlock shook his head… then winced in pain. “Ow! That was stupid.” 

“Yeah,” John agreed. “So; the attackers?” 

“Never saw them before,” Sherlock replied. “But that’s not surprising. London is full of professionals; I’m sure there won’t be any connection to Gruner. None that we’d be able to prove anyway.” 

“That’s impossible!” John protested. “Of course it was that damned arsehole who set them on to you! It couldn’t be anyone else!” 

“Obviously,” Sherlock said. “But I’m also quite sure that they were hired by phone – a pre-paid mobile that was destroyed right after the call is the most likely possibility – and that the money was delivered by completely innocent yet untraceable methods; a courier service, for example, also engaged in some anonymous manner.” 

“Are we just going to let them get away with it then?” John asked sharply. 

Sherlock stopped himself in the last moment from the repeat mistake of shaking his head. 

“No, of course not. I’ve sent Billy to alert Shinwell Johnson; we’ll have them in two days, tops.” 

“No,” John said determinedly. “The police will have them. Or Mycroft. Whatever you prefer. You, on the other hand, will stay put, take your medicine, and eat sensibly, for a change.” 

“Or what?” Sherlock challenged, although he was clearly weak like a kitten – in no shape to chase after criminals. Quite frankly, even going to the bathroom might prove a challenge in his current condition. 

“Or I’ll call Mary over to watch you,” John replied simply. 

Sherlock closed his eyes and visibly shuddered. “That’s blackmail.” 

“Yes, it is,” John admitted readily. “Is it working?” 

“You know it does. Your wife is the single most frightening person in England when in doctor mode.” 

“Worse even than me?” John didn’t know whether he should be proud of Mary for taming the mad genius or insulted on his own behalf. 

“Much worse,” Sherlock replied with feeling. “None of my usual tricks work on her. It’s… downright terrifying.” 

“Well, I’m glad to hear that,” John said. ”Now that _that_ ’s settled – what can I do to help? _Can_ I do anything?” 

“Don’t be stupid, John, of course you can!” Sherlock snorted; then he winced again because even _that_ hurt like hell. “In fact, you’re the key factor in my plan.” 

“You’ve got a plan?” 

“I’ve _always_ got a plan; you should know that by now.” 

“Yeah, that was what Angelo said when I first met him,” John said with a sour expression. “If I remember correctly, your cunning plan back then was to get into the cab of a mad serial killer and then nearly take the poison pill. So forgive me if I’m a bit suspicious when it comes to your plans.” 

“Why? I got away unharmed, didn’t I?” 

“Cause I shot the killer in the head with the Army pistol I absolutely didn’t have on me and haven’t possessed ever since, as it would be highly illegal to do so, yeah,” John replied dryly. 

“I told you Mycroft could get you a licence for that.” 

“Yes, you have. And _I told you_ that in that case I’d have to admit having it in the first place, which could lead to any sorts of unpleasant consequences, thank you very much.” 

“Mycroft could take care of those, too,” Sherlock offered. 

John raised a questioning eyebrow. “I thought we weren’t accepting personal favours from your brother, unless _he_ wants something really badly. Now; what is that plan of yours and what part will I have to play in it?” 

“The first thing is to exaggerate my injuries,” Sherlock began. 

“I don’t think there would be need for _that_ ,” John said grimly. “You already look like shit, and once the morphine wears off, you’ll be in agony.” 

“Nonetheless, they’ll come to you for news,” Sherlock replied. “Lay it on thick, John. Lucky if I live the week out… concussion… delirium… what you like. You can’t overdo it.” 

“No, I’m afraid I can’t,” John agreed, knowing what was coming to them and so _not_ looking forward to it. “But you’ll need a doctor, now that I’ve thrown that pompous, incompetent fool out.” 

“I’ve got _you_. That’s enough.” 

“No, it isn’t. Not if you want me to run errands for you, which I’m sure you do. And before you ask, no, we can’t close the practice until the case is solved. People like Mary and me actually have to earn their living.” 

“What about Mike Stamford, then?” 

“Mike’s not a surgeon.” 

“No, but _you_ are. You can instruct him. And he’s a friend; he won’t babble to the press or anyone.” 

“I can try,” John allowed a little reluctantly. “He might not babble indeed, but he’s a lousy liar, you know.” 

“He won’t have to lie,” Sherlock said. “I’ll put up a good show for him. He’ll see the worst side of me. I’ll make sure of that.” 

“Don’t you always?” John muttered sarcastically. “Okay, anything else?” 

“Yes. Tell Lestrade to get that girl out of the way.” 

“Kitty Winter?” John clarified and Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

Then he winced. Apparently, rolling his eyes was also out of the question for the immediate future. How annoying! 

“No, the Duchess of Cambridge!” he snapped. “Of course Kitty Winter, who else? They’ll be after her now. They know that she’s with me on the case; Violet made that very clear. If they dared to do me in, in the broad daylight, in front of a dozen witnesses, it’s not likely that they’ll spare her. That’s urgent. Do it tonight.” 

“I’ll call at once,” John promised. “Anything else?” 

Sherlock looked up at him from a half-lidded eye. “I don’t suppose I could talk you into getting me a smoke… or, at least, some nicotine patches?” 

“You don’t suppose rightly,” John replied without mercy. “You’re doped up to your eyebalss on the morphine that posh butcher gave you, even without further harmful substances. Withdrawal is gonna be a bitch as it is. Now, let me call Mary to sit with you while I’ll take care of the other matters; then I’ll take over from her for the night.” 

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
As expected, Sherlock wasn’t happy with the idea, but John didn’t listen to his complaints. Mary arrived half an hour later, so that John could go to the living room to make his phone calls without Sherlock’s derogatory comments. 

He called Lestrade first and explained the situation to him. Lestrade understood what was expected from him – despite what Sherlock liked to state, he was _not_ an idiot, nor was he incompetent – and called back an hour later, telling him that Miss Winters had been moved to a safe house in a quiet suburb, with Sally Donovan accompanying her to make sure that she’d lie low until the danger was over. 

“Donovan?” John consciously kept his voice low, so that Sherlock wouldn’t hear him. “You couldn’t find someone else? Someone who wouldn’t do their best to undermine the case just to have one over Sherlock?” 

“I could,” Lestrade replied dryly, “but she’s the best. And she’d do everything to protect a witness who could bring down a man like Gruner. Don’t ask. Family history. Besides, I didn’t tell her that Sherlock is involved, although she might yet figure out. Even so, she’d do her job well. She might not _like_ Sherlock – and God knows Sherlock did his best to ensure that – but she’s a good cop. Deal with it.” 

“I’m sure Miss Winters has babbled already,” John muttered angrily. He didn’t like the idea of Donovan being involved, not a bit. 

“No; and she won’t,” Lestrade said. “I told her that police protection will end for her the moment she opens her mouth. See that you get things organised,” and with that, the detective inspector hung up. 

John allowed himself a moment of fuming, then his sense of duty took over again. He called Mike Stamford next, to give him the edited version of things and arranged a visit for the next morning. Then he went back to Sherlock’s bedroom, taking his old laptop with him. 

“I’ll take over for the night, love,” he said to Mary. “Go home and get some rest, in case I ‘m not able to work in the practice tomorrow… which seems more and more likely at the moment.” 

“I’ve got a better idea,” Mary replied. “Why don’t you go to your old bedroom and get a few hours of sleep? I’ll wake you around midnight and switch places with you, so that I won’t fall asleep on our patients in the morning.” 

“All right,” John said, because that was a very reasonable suggestion. “But if anything happens, or if there’s a change…” 

“I’ll wake you at once,” Mary promised, kissing him briefly. “Now, go and rest. You look like someone who needs it badly.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Membership of the Royal College of Surgeons. According to wellingtongoose who, unlike me, knows how these things work in the UK, “a surgeon only gains the right be referred to as Mr/Mrs/Miss once they pass the all important MRCS exam, which aspiring surgeons take towards the end of their core training program. This exam needs to be completed before you advance to a specialist training program. Unlike a GP, all trainee surgeons do Core training and then Specialist training, which is why it takes much longer to train as a surgeon than as a physician. John could still be Dr Watson if he started a Core surgical training program but never finished it before being invalided out of the army.


	12. Interlude: Blog Entry of John Watson

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
BLOG ENTRY OF DR. JOHN H. WATSON**

**September 8, 2014**

I don’t know how I’m supposed to be writing this. I don’t know how I’m meant to do this again, just a year after Sherlock’s miraculous return.

Losing him _once_ almost killed me, even though it was all fake, just an illusion. Of course, I didn’t _know_ that back then, so I was pretty much devastated. But losing him again, this time for real… I don’t know how I’m gonna deal with this. Not even with Mary’s support… who’s my rock in everything, really, but still…

I guess you all know by now what happened. How Sherlock was beaten up by two thugs and all that, the (deleted expletive) tabloids were full of the “sensation”. Damn them; someone being beaten to death – or close to it – is “sensation” to them. They’re nothing more than a bunch of vultures, really – and the ghouls whose addiction they’re feeding aren’t any better.

Anyway. Yep, it’s bad. Really bad. Concussion with short-term memory loss, hairline fractures of the skull, three broken ribs, a bruised liver, internal bleeding… the full works. That posh doctor Sherlock’s brother had organised did what he could, but things look pretty grim at the moment.

Of course, it didn’t help things that the idiot insisted on being released from the hospital and brought back to Baker Street. But even if he’d stayed there like a sensible bloke, it would make very little difference. He’s unconscious most of the time, and when he _does_ wake up, all he talks is incoherent rubbish.

So, while we appreciate the interest and the compassion, please don’t phone or try to visit. Mary and I watch over him in shifts, and sometimes Mrs H. helps, too, but there really isn’t much either of us can do. We’ll have to wait and hope that things might take a turn for the better, though it’s a slim hope, really.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
12 Comments**

John, I’m so sorry. Call me if you need someone to talk to.

Ella Thompson, September 8, 20:31

*  
That’s tough, mate. Any way I can help? The missus wouldn’t mind, you know that.

Bill Murray, September 8, 20:40

*  
Do you need me to get over to Baker Street and help you watch over him?

Molly Hooper, September 8, 22:03

*  
What happened doesn’t surprise me one bit. Sooner or later somebody had to get thoroughly fed up with him.

Sally Donovan, September 8, 22:37

*  
BITCH!

Harry Watson, September 8, 22:45

*  
Language, Harry!

John Watson, September 8, 22:51

*  
Is true, though. Besides, if you could be bothered to answer your phone, I wouldn’t have to comment on your blog, you know.

Harry Watson, September 8, 22:55

*  
Well, yes, we’re a bit busy over here right now.

John Watson, September 8, 23:02

*  
I’m gonna check on him – and on you – first thing in the morning.

Mike Stamford, September 8, 23:42

*  
Ta, Mike, you’re a godsend. I admit I’m a bit out of my head with worry at the moment.

John Watson, September 8, 23:57

*  
Tell us how Sherlock is doing!!!

Jacob Sowersby, September 10, 9:27

*  
Any news about Sherlock?

Chris Melas, September 12, 18:06


	13. Recovery & Battle Plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the dialogue is loosely based on the original short story.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

**CHAPTER 12 – RECOVERY AND BATTLE PLANS**

**September 15th 2014**

For the next six days John hardly ever left 221B Bakers Street. The sensation of what had happened to Sherlock blew over after a few days, in favour of newer, even more interesting scandals, and he was grateful for that. He was wrecked enough with concern for Sherlock without those damned press hyenas lurking in front of the house all the time, trying to get a statement out of him.

There were only so many times he could say _No comment!_ Without giving in to the urge to punch somebody in the bloody nose. Giving them a literal bloody nose.

He winced mentally at his own bad pun.

The sad truth was, however, that he hadn’t been exaggerating in his blog. Sherlock wasn’t doing well. Not because of his injuries, of course – they were bad but a lot less severe than he’d described them – but because that idiot Sir Leslie had given him a massive dosis of morphine, sending him first on a manic trip, during which John and Mary practically had to lie on him, so that he couldn’t get up and reinjure himself; only to plunge immediately into deep, suicidal depressions as soon as the morphine had worn out.

He was also in considerable pain, as John didn’t dare to give him anything else against it.

John intended to say a few chosen words to Mycroft about calling _any_ doctors to Sherlock without consulting _him_ first, as soon as the crisis was over.

Right now, Sherlock needed to be watched round the clock. Mike had ordered infusions to keep him from complete dehydration, as he refused to eat anything, and he had to be restrained, or else he’d have torn the IV lines out of his arm. Even so, John wouldn’t dare to let him unsupervised for a moment.

Which, of course, didn’t go down well with Sherlock, who hated people – especially strangers – touching him or even being in the same room with him unless it was his own choice. For somebody who so blatantly disregarded the privacy of others, he certainly protected his own most jealously.

On the third day John finally gave in and asked for help. He wasn’t a Holmes; he couldn’t go on without sleep indefinitely, and Mary was already overworked, too, carrying the practice entirely on her own. So he called in Molly, then Sarah; in the end even Bill Murray. 

One didn’t need to be a doctor to be able to restrain a delirious patient. In fact, being an Army nurse made one even more qualified for such things.

On the fifth day, Lestrade came to do some fact-checking. John told him everything about the case, knowing that the Detective Inspector was a discreet man. Besides, since the attack on Sherlock, it was the Yard’s case, too… sort of.

“So, what are you planning to do next?” Lestrade asked. “And why did you have to learn all that nonsense about old Chinese pottery?”

“I haven’t got the faintest,” John admitted. “You know Sherlock and his secretive streak. He likes his dramatic effects, yes, but always leaves everyone guessing what his exact plans are. You know the saying that the only safe plotter is he who plots alone, don’t you?”

“Yeah, well, he seems to push it to an extreme,” Lestrade muttered. “You’re closer to him than anyone else; one would think that he’d let _you_ into the secret, if nobody else.”

“Like he told me he was actually alive in all those three years while I was mourning him?” John returned dryly, and Lestrade didn’t have an answer to _that_.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
On the seventh day the worst finally seemed to be over. Sherlock woke up lucid and without the latent fever he’d been running, on and off, throughout the previous days, so Mike decided that the stitches could be taken out.

“I’ll do it myself,” John said. “I may no longer be able to do emergency operations, but my hand is still steady enough for such minor things. Besides, I don’t want any of Mycroft’s butchers near him ever again.”

Mike agreed with the plan, and they asked Mary to assist as well, because they both knew it was going to be a painful process. Especially as they did not dare to give Sherlock any more painkillers. Not even those that weren’t opium-based. One could never know with his “completely fucked-up body chemistry”, as John had put it in a moment of utter frustration.

Other than that, Sherlock was recovering well enough. Better than his still waif-like constitution would have entitled any ordinary man. But, of course, he was _not_ an ordinary man. He always healed fast, which John usually explained with sheer stubbornness, but now began to think that it was probably a genetic trait.

Whatever the reason might be, he was back on his feet right after the removal of the stitches, half-lying on the couch of the sitting room with the evening papers, nursing a cup of rapidly cooling tea, refusing to eat and griping about the lack of any headway in the Gruner case. In other words, back to true form.

Until he came to an article that reported that among the passengers of the cruise ship _Ruritania_ , starting from Liverpool on the next Friday, was the Baron Adelbert Gruner, who had some important financial business to settle in the States before his impeding wedding to Miss Violet Merville, only daughter of… etc, etc.

“Dammit!” Sherlock exclaimed, throwing the newspaper to the floor in a fit of temper. "That leaves us les than three days to make our move! Oh, he’s smart, really smart! Either he’s seen through our smoke curtain, or he simply feels that England is becoming too hot for him and tries to put himself out of danger’s way,”

“What danger?” John asked realistically. “We might have exaggerated your injuries, but let’s face it, you are still a wreck. I seriously doubt that he’d consider you a real threat.”

“Possibly,” Sherlock admitted reluctantly. “But Mycroft is a different matter.”

“He knows about Mycroft?” John asked in surprise.

“ _Violet_ does,” Sherlock replied. “She also knows Mycroft would do just about anything to please Mummy. I imagine she’d warned Gruner that my brother has a long arm, aside from having a long nose that he likes to poke into everything. _And_ that he takes it personally when somebody of the family gets hurt. Even if that somebody is _me_.”

“You can’t blame a man for caring for his brother,” John pointed out. “God knows you give him enough reason to worry.”

“I can, if he ruins my cases with his meddling,” Sherlock scowled. “Never mind him at the moment, though. We need a plan.”

“What for?” John had, quite frankly, no idea what could they possibly do to stop the Baron. “Marrying a rich heiress is not a crime, and whatever other crimes he might have committed, we have no proof for it. Not the slightest.”

“I know,” Sherlock admitted grudgingly. “Which is why we need to get our hands on Gruner’s little book of dirty secrets.”

John stared at him in shock. “You’re kidding, right? Tell me you’re kidding. No, you’re _not_ kidding,” he realised with a dreadful feeling of impending doom. “You’re actually serious about this, aren’t you?”

“Of _course_ I’m serious, how else are we going to persuade the police to arrest him before he could leave England?” Sherlock replied impatiently. “He won’t leave the book, the only actual proof of his criminal activities, behind. Therefore we need to get it _before_ he leaves.”

“And I assume you already know _how_ we should get it,” John said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Which, as usual, went by Sherlock completely unnoticed. “Of course I do; why, do you think, did I want you to learn about Chinese pottery?”

“I was wondering about that,” John confessed.

“And have you learned your lesson?” Sherlock asked.

“When have I refused to do what you demanded from me, even if it was completely insane,” John countered; then, his natural modesty taking over, he shrugged. “At least I’ve tried my best.”

“Good. Could you keep up a moderately intelligent conversation on the subject?”

“I believe I could,” John wished he’d feel half as confident as he tried to sound.

“Then hand me that little box from the mantelpiece,” Sherlock ordered, and John got on his feet with a long-suffering sigh.

Some things apparently never changed. At least he didn’t have to rummage through Sherlock’s pockets this time. Not while Sherlock was wearing the pieces of clothing said pockets belonged to. Thank God for small mercies.

Sherlock accepted the box with a distracted nod that went for thanks with him on a good day and opened the lid. There was a small object inside, carefully wrapped in bubble wrap and in fine silk. He removed the wrapping and revealed a delicate little saucer of the most beautiful deep blue colour.

John stared at it open-mouthed. His newly won knowledge of Chinese pottery was superficial at best, but even he could tell that he was looking at something infinitely precious.

“It’s beautiful,” he breathed, and Sherlock nodded in agreement.

“Indeed it is. This is the real eggshell pottery of the Ming dynasty. No finer piece has ever passed through _Christie’s_. A complete set of this would be worth millions in the double digits, at the very least. In fact, it’s unlikely that there would be a complete set outside the _National Arts and Crafts Museum_ in Beijing. The mere sight of this would drive any passionate collector mad with want.”

“So, how _did_ you come to it then?” John asked. “Cause you weren’t in any shape for a quick trip in China in the recent days, just to nick it from that museum.”

“Actually, it belongs to the Chinese ambassador,” Sherlock replied. “It’s only a loan, so you’ll have to handle it carefully. It would cost more than that pathetic little practice of yours if you managed to break it.”

“How on Earth did you manage to borrow something like his from the Chinese ambassador in the first place?” John asked in surprise; then realisation dawned. “Oh. Of course. Mycroft.”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock agreed. “He does have his uses, occasionally.”

“I still don’t understand how something like this is supposed to help us,” John said. “Aside from making me deadly afraid of breaking it, that is.”

“Oh, do try to keep up, John, surely you could have figured it out by now,” Sherlock replied with a dramatic eyeroll; then he handed John a card that said.

**_Dr. H. Barton  
369 Half Moon Street_ **

John studied it for a moment, then he shook his head. “Nope, still no idea.”

“This is your name for tomorrow evening,” Sherlock explained with enforced patience. “You’ll call upon Baron Gruner. I’ve learned a bit about his habits – with the help of Shinwell’s associates, of course – and can be reasonably sure that he’ll be available at half past eight.”

“Available for _what_?”

“A note will tell him in advance that you’re about to call,” Sherlock continued, as if John hadn’t interrupted him at all. “And you’ll say that you’re bringing him a piece of an absolutely unique set of Ming china. You may as well be a medical man, since that’s a part you’ll be able to play convincingly, despite being a horrible actor.”

“Gee, thanks!” John said dryly.

Sherlock ignored him, as always when he was on a roll.

“You’re a collector,” he explained. “This little gem has come your way. You’ve heard of the Baron’s interest in the subject, and you’re not averse to selling it at a price.”

“ _What_ price?” John asked, slightly out of his depth. 

Which, considering that the small piece of pottery was apparently more worth than his practice, was understandable.

Sherlock nodded. “Good question, John. You’d certainly fall down badly if you didn’t know the value of your wares.”

“But I don’t know, do I?” John asked. “I could perhaps suggest that the saucer should be valued by an expert…”

Sherlock’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. “Brilliant, John! You’re outdoing yourself today. Oh, I’m so proud of you!”

“Ta,” John replied dryly. “I thought it would make me more convincing if I didn’t put a price on the thing myself, seeing that I don’t have the faintest idea what it might be worth. Whom should I suggest, though?”

“ _Christie's_. Or _Sotheby's_ ,” Sherlock replied without hesitation. “They are the highest authority; no-one would question their expertise in the matter, seeing as they’d been dealing with such valuable items for at least two hundred years.”

“But what if the Baron won’t see me?” John asked worriedly.

Sherlock waved off his concern. “Oh, he _will_ see you all right. He’s one of those obsessed collectors that couldn’t bear it if a piece of true value might be purchased by a rival – especially on a subject on which he’s an acknowledged authority. Do sit down, John, and I’ll dictate the letter. No answer needed. You’ll merely say that you’re coming and why.”

John dutifully obeyed, and soon the letter was finished. He had to admit that it was a brilliant document: short, courteous, and stimulating to the curiosity of a real connoisseur. He printed it out, they found a fine enough envelope and Sherlock, who had a much neater handwriting, put the name and address on it. All they would need was to have it dispatched by a messenger when Mary arrived, having closed the practice for the day, and eager to hear what plans had they forged in her absence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: my dear, knowledgeable beta pointed out to me that morphine wouldn't do the things I stated it to do. I stand corrected – I must admit that I followed other misinformed people in fanfiction. One day, when I'm retired and have all the time in the world, I'll rewrite that passage, I swear, but at the moment I just need to finish this story, so keep in mind that I was obviously wrong and bear with me until then. Thanks.


	14. A Change of Plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the dialogue is loosely based on the original short story by ACD.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**CHAPTER 13 – A CHANGE OF PLANS**

**September 15th 2014** 0

“Absolutely _not_!” she declared when they’d explained the plans to her.

Sherlock gave her an annoyed look. “I beg your pardon?”

“This is a stupid plan, full of holes large enough to drive a truck through them,” she said angrily, which annoyed Sherlock even more. He wasn’t one to take criticism well.

“Would you like to enlighten us what’s wrong with our plan?” he asked, visibly irritated.

“ _Your_ plan,” John corrected. “You sprang it on me an hour ago, without warning and fully formed. I deny any responsibility.”

“Whatever,” Sherlock waved dismissively; then he glared at Mary. “Well? We’re waiting.”

“So happy to obey,” Mary replied sarcastically; then she began to count down the points on her fingers. “Firstly: John’s the least suitable person for this scham. Not only is he a lousy liar, he’s almost as well-known as you are. His photo is on the blog, for God’s sake! If the Baron’s checked out your background through his fiancée, don’t you think he’d have found John as well?”

“She does have a point,” John said to Sherlock, who just sulked, without giving an answer.

“Secondly,” Mary arrived at the index finger, “You’ve failed to create any background for his mysterious Dr Barton of yours. Collectors know each other, if only from hearsay. It would take the Baron about ten seconds of internet research to realise that Dr Barton is a fake – and that you’re merely trying to create a distraction.”

“Mycroft can take care of _that_ ,” Sherlock muttered in evident dismay.

Mary shook her head. “Not even he can create a collector out of thin air; and one in the possession of such a priceless item. Which brings me to the third pitfall of your plan. If a piece like this had been in circulation, the Baron would have heard about it already. It would have been shown in the catalogues of the great auction houses; at the very least it would have a history of having been in private hands for quite some time – a century or two, most likely.”

“Again, she does have a point,” John commented softly, ignoring Sherlock’s mutinous expression.

“So what if she does?” Sherlock snapped. “Are we supposed to let the Baron get away with several murders, not to mention Violet’s entire wealth?”

“No,” Mary said. “But you’ll need a better bait. One that the Baron would be more likely to take.”

“Oh,” Sherlock returned with biting sarcasm. “And you just happen to know the right person for the job, wouldn’t you?”

Mary nodded. “Of course. I’ll go.”

“Absolutely _not_!” John protested vehemently, unconsciously echoing her previous statement.

Sherlock, on the other hand, only gave her a condescending look.

“And how, pray tell, would you be better suited for the job than John?” he asked.

“Well,” Mary started to count down on her fingers again. “I’m a much better actress, for starters. Then, I do have a suitable background; anyone can find out in no time that my father used to serve in Hong-Kong and on Taiwan for quite a few years. I could have inherited this little darling from him, together with a few other antique pieces that I’ve already sold through auction, to be able to buy the practice, as you know.”

“That _would_ explain why the saucer hasn’t turned out on auctions before,” John pointed out.

Sherlock scowled. “Oh, thank you so much for pointing out the glaringly obvious, John!” he then turned to Mary. “You forget one thing: the practice will lead directly to John; and through him to me again.”

“It would, if it were running under John’s name,“ Mary agreed. “Which it isn’t; you’d know that, had you paid the slightest attention to our private life, save for disturbing it whenever you need John’s help.”

Few things ever surprised Sherlock, so he couldn’t really be blamed for staring at the Watsons in open-mouthed shock.

“You have the practice running under Mary’s name?” he asked when he finally regained the ability of coherent speech. It took him embarrassingly long. “Why would you do _that_?”

“Because we wanted a solid, down-to-Earth general practice, with real patients who actually need medical treatment, instead of being overrun by your fans – or enemies – who’d try to get to you through me,” John replied simply. “Besides, we’ve bought if from _Mary_ ’s money; well it’s still mostly owned by the bank, but what actual money was put into it had belonged to Mary. It’s only fair that she’d be recorded as the main owner. I’ve got ownership, too, but only through our marriage.”

“Which, again, would explain why I’d be willing to sell the saucer,” Mary continued. “It’s an understandable wish to pay off one’s mortgage sooner rather than later.”

“But how would you explain to have heard about the Baron and his interest in Chinese pottery?” John asked.

“That’s easy: through the _National Antiquities Museum_ ,” Mary replied promptly. “They may be pissed at him, but they know him and that he’s an expert. I’ll contact Ms Acquah, the director of the _Museum_ , and have the saucer valued and its genuinity certified. _Then_ I’ll send your letter to the Baron; which I’ll hand-copy first, of course. Miss Merville might recognise Sherlock’s handwriting on the envelope – which would be another pitfall in your plan, of course.”

Sherlock gave her a suspicious look. “And you’ve just come up with this contingency plan of yours on a whim?”

“Of course not,” Mary smiled. “I had a week to try to figure out why you’d want John to learn about Chinese pottery. I couldn’t guess the exact details, of course, but I was sure you’d want to send him to the Baron with that shaky knowledge for some reason – and _that_ could have got him hurt or killed. They weren’t exactly gentle with _you_ , either.”

“And you think I’d let _you_ get yourself hurt or killed?” John asked incredulously. “I’ve posted wedding photos to my blog, you know. You’re just as easily recognisable as I am.”

“Not by half,” Mary smiled at him. “And I won’t go to him as the blonde bride, all in white. Women can change their appearance more quickly and thoroughly, you know. Temporary hair colouring can make me look years older – there’s a reason I’m a blonde, you see – and then there are such things as changing the colour and the shape of the eyebrows, fake wimpers, coloured contacts, a different style of clothing… not even you’ll recognise me once I’m done.”

“Perhaps,” John allowed reluctantly. “But what name would you be using?”

Mary gave him a surprised look. “Well, my own, of course. Rest assured that the Baron _will_ check on me as soon as he gets my note. The only way to prevent being revealed as a fake is to be the genuine item.”

John shook his head. “This is madness.”

“No,” Mary said, suddenly very serious. “Sherlock’s half-baked plan was madness. I understand that your hand was being forced and you had to improvise,” he added, turning to Sherlock, “but _your_ plan wouldn’t have worked. Mine, at least, has got a chance to work.”

The two men were silent for a while – for entirely different reasons. It was Sherlock who finally broke the silence.

“I hate to admit,” he said reluctantly, “but she’s right.”

“I _know_ she’s right,” John replied darkly. “It doesn’t mean I have to _like_ it, though.”

“No,” Mary agreed, smiling, and kissed him. “You should trust me, though, and that I know what I’m doing. I’m not a child, John; nor am I some damsel in distress, in constant need of rescuing.”

“I know you’re not,” John sighed. “But you still could get hurt. I hate the thought of you getting hurt.”

“I won’t,” Mary promised. “You see, I’m a woman…”

“The fact hasn’t escaped me,” John commented dryly.

“Which is why the Baron is more likely to underestimate me,” Mary continued, as if he hadn’t interrupted her. “He won’t see me as a threat; he’ll just see a lonely woman (or so he’ll think) with something he wants. He’ll try to cheat me, in order to get the saucer well below its actual price. It won’t matter what I babble about Chinese pottery; or if I can talk about it with any degree of understanding. In fact, the more clueless I appear, the more he’ll be hooked. That should give you the chance to find that love diary of his. Or lust diary. Whatever.”

The men were quiet for a while again. This time it was John who broke the silence.

“It _could_ work,” he allowed. “But it’s still risky. I still don’t like it.”

Mary gave him a tolerant smile.

“Do you think _I like it_ when you dash after Sherlock all across London, chasing mad serial killers or whatnot? I’m scared to death, every single time, but I let you, because I know that you prefer this kind of life. Being a civilian doesn’t suit you, so I let you have your regular doses of excitement. This one time, though, I’m better suited to get the job done, so you’ll have to bite the bullet and let me do it. It’s that simple.”

Which was very true, but it still didn’t mean that John would have to _like_ it. He didn’t. He empathically didn’t.

“Besides,” Mary added with a wicked grin,” why should the two of you have all the fun while I’m sitting in the practice, treating hangnails, snotty noses and bruised knees?”

Sherlock grinned back at her. Despite his previous predictions, he was coming to like Mary more and more. He definitely could see why John had fallen for her.

“Make sure you send Mycroft the bills for your complete make-over,” he said. “If he really wants this case solved so badly, he should cover the expenses, too. Buy some _really_ expensive perfume, too, when you’re already at it.”

“And never use it again?” Mary shook her head, although she _was_ laughing. “No, thanks. I have a strong aversion against wasting things. Let me do this my way; I promise it will work.”

“You can at least ask Anthea to help you,” Sherlock suggested. “She’s very efficient.”

“I’m sure she is,” Mary replied. “But you really shouldn’t volunteer people to do things for you without asking them first. It’s not polite.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Who cares about polite?”

“Not you, obviously,” Mary said. “But _I do_. And I’m sure that between the two of us Molly and I will manage.”

“I don’t want to pull Molly into this,” Sherlock said morosely. “She’s done enough for me. More than I could ever repay.”

“She won’t be doing this for you; she’ll be doing it for _me_ ,” Mary replied. “Women like make-over arties. It will be fun.”

“It will be _dangerous_ ,” John corrected, still unhappy with the idea.

Mary beamed at him. “Why, yes. That’s part of the fun, isn’t it?”

John gave Sherlock a pleading look, but all he earned was a helpless shrug.

“It seems we’ve created a monster, John.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Mycroft Holmes leaned back in the comfortable armchair of his office at Whitehall and stapled his hands under his chin. His PA, generally known as Anthea by outsiders (at least for the time being), turned away the screen where the CCTV feed from Baker Street was running.

“Are we supposed to interfere, sir?" she asked. “Ms Morstan’s plan could work, but there are considerable risks involved.”

“True,” Mycroft admitted. “But they’re mature adults; we can’t always interfere with their actions. Besides, we need to have the problem solved; and right now, Sherlock is the only one who can solve it before Gruner leaves England.”

“Is there no way to stop him?” Anthea asked.

“No _legal_ way,” Mycroft clarified. “And if we try to stop him using… er… _other_ methods, the case wouldn’t have the chance to stand before court.”

“Does the case _have_ to come before court?” Anthea asked. “I mean, we could deal with the Baron, quickly and discretely. No-one would ever learn the truth. We do have the means.”

Mycroft nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “Of course we could; but that would only solve the problem of Violet Merville’s unpassable marriage. We don’t know what else is recorded in that book of Gruner’s; how many other women have been involved and what became of them.”

“We could search his house and secure the book in no time,” Anthea suggested.

“We _could_ ,” Mycroft agreed. “But _should_ we? Any not strictly legal action from _our_ side could prove very uncomfortable for Sherlock’s client.”

“Sherlock’s plans to secure the book aren’t exactly legal, either,” Anthea pointed out truthfully. 

Mycroft nodded. “True. But no-one cares if _Sherlock_ does it. Everybody knows that he does this all the time. People _accept_ such things from him, because he’s a civilian and an eccentric genius. They’ll never accept it from _us_. We’re the government and therefore we are the enemy.”

Anthea nodded, because that was, of course, very true. Sherlock could get away with a great deal of irregularities, just because he was, well, Sherlock. Especially after all previous accusations against him had turned out false. The fact that the Baron had hired those thugs to beat him up secured the sympathies of the public for him… for a while anyway.

“Surveillance only then?” she asked.

“Surveillance only,” Mycroft nodded. “Grade Three, active. Intervene only when somebody is in grave danger. Unless they ask for it, that is.”


	15. Extreme Make-Over and Other Frivolities

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the dialogue is loosely based on the original short story. The _National Antiquities Museum_ and its director are from the 1st Season episode “The Blind Banker”. Obviously, as everyone’s favourite consulting detective would say.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 14 – EXTREME MAKE-OVER AND OTHER FRIVOLITIES**

**September 16th 2014**

The next day started early for the Watsons – well, earlier than usual, that is. As much as both liked to sleep in occasionally, _that_ was a luxury they could rarely afford.

The practice was open from 8 a.m. to noon and from 2 p.m. to 6 p.m. respectively, not counting the house calls that could come between and after shifts… sometimes even before them. Which meant that their day work could take as long as ten to twelve hours, and when Sherlock needed John’s assistance, Mary had to deal with it on her own.

On this day, however, it was John who’d have to deal with their prospective patients alone. Mary had important errands to run before it would come to the big action at Vernon Lodge. She had to admit that she enjoyed the chance; but she was also quite nervous. This was the first time that she’d take part in The Work (she’d learned to think of it with capital letters, the same way Sherlock and John did). 

What’s more, this time the outcome of a somewhat risky action depended entirely on her. And – despite her confident words earlier – she _was_ worried that she might make a fatal mistake.

“If we get out of this mess unharmed, I’ll treat us to a full English breakfast each day for the rest of the week,” she said, buttering her toast.

John gave her a worried look, which was understandable. She rarely displayed any sign of concern about whatever they were doing with Sherlock.

“You can still back out of it, you know,” he said. “We can stick with Sherlock’s original plan.”

“Nom we can’t,” Mary replied sharply. “His plain is rubbish; we both know that. Hell, even _he_ knows that, or he’d never have agreed to mine.”

“Which isn’t exactly safe, either,” John pointed out.

“Safer than his,” Mary snatched the small glass jar of strawberry jam right from before his nose and ignored his death glare with practiced ease. “Besides, if I wanted safe, I wouldn’t have married _you_. You always lived dangerously.”

“Guilty as charged,” John laughed ruefully. “Where will you start?”

“In the _National Antiquities Museum_ ,” Mary replied. “I phoned Ms Acquah and she agreed to come in early and take a look at the little treasure. I won’t tell her where it comes, of course, only that it’s merely a loan and will help to set a trap for the Baron. That will ensure her cooperation; she positively loathes the man.”

“He’s not the only one,” John muttered darkly. “I don’t like the idea of you going to meet him alone.”

“I know, love; but I won’t be alone, will I?” Mary smiled at him encouragingly.” That’s the reason for the whole charade: to allow you and Sherlock to get into the house unnoticed.”

“You’ll still be alone with him; alone and unarmed,” John pointed out. “Should something go wrong, I might not have the chance to get to you in time.”

“Well, I better make sure that nothing goes wrong, then,” Mary finished her tea and rose. “Anyway, I must be off now. It wouldn’t be very polite to make Ms Acquah wait, seeing that she’d doing me a favour and all that.”

“Get a cab,” John said. “Better safe than sorry with that precious trinket in your bag. Besides, we _will_ send the bills to Mycroft. He’s the one who got us into this mess, after all.”

“I _love_ it when you get all petty and vengeful,” Mary kissed him on the cheek. “You’d be depressingly perfect otherwise,” she walked out of the kitchen and looked down at Queen Anne Street. “Hurry up, Dr Watson; your patients are already gathering in front of the practice. God, am I grateful to be the Sherlock sidekick today! It promises to be a very busy day here.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
She did get a cab, of course. She wouldn’t risk to carry on her a piece of centuries-old art that was more worth than their house _and_ the practice and belonged to a foreign dignitary, while pressing through the crowd on the Tube. Besides, Mycroft would be paying in the end, wouldn’t he? She was doing this voluntarily; the least she could expect was the covering of her expenses.

Ms Acquah was already waiting for her, despite the fact that the museum wasn’t supposed to open for another two hours. The director was more excited than a kid in a candy shop.

“I never expected to hold one of these in my hand, ever,” she enthused, after leading Mary into the restoration workshops in the basement. “They are extremely rare, you know. I only know of one in England to match your description, and it’s not likely to be on the market.”

“Neither is this,” Mary unwrapped the saucer and gingerly placed it on the long table on which the museum’s restaurateurs usually worked on old pottery. “It’s just a loan – and for today only. A bait to lure Baron Gruner into a trap. But for him to take the bait, I’ll need a certificate of the saucer’s genuinity; _and_ a rough estimate of its worth.”

“I can tell you its monetary worth off the top of my head; although, of course, it’s priceless where its cultural importance is concerned,” Ms Acquah said. “I’ll have to examine it carefully before giving you a certificate, though. You must understand, I’ve got a reputation as an archaeologist; a reputation I cannot afford to put at risk.”

“Sure, go on and make any tests you fell necessary,” Mary waved generously. “Just make sure that it won’t come to any harm. I’ve been told that it’s worth more than everything my husband and I own… or are likely to own till the end of our lives.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be most careful,” Ms Acquah promised, burning with desire to finally lay her hand on such a rarity.

For the next hour and a half, she was completely occupied with the saucer. She made every test she could think of, starting with digital photographs of both sides of the saucer, which she then transferred on the large screen of her laptop and magnified it to analyse both the pattern on the front and the signature of the long dead artist on the back, making a 3D-map of all tiny blemishes the item had suffered during its long existence.

She examined it under infrared and ultraviolet light, making further pictures.

She took microscopic samples of both the ground material itself _and_ the blue glaze – something that couldn’t be seen by the naked eye, nor electronically, unless one used an extremely strong microscope and knew in advance what to look for.

She compared the results with the museum’s extensive database, looking for matching pieces known all across the world.

“I wish we could use radiocarbon dating,” she said, typing up the results with impressive speed. “Unfortunately, C14 can only used by organic materials. Still I’ll send in the samples for more detailed chemical analysis, just for my own pleasure. But even without that assurance, I can give the certificate with good conscience. As far as I can tell, this _is_ a genuine piece of eggshell pottery from the Ming era...”

She printed out the document, stamped the official seal of the museum onto it and signed it by hand. Then she folded it carefully, put it into a long, narrow envelope that also bore the logo of the museum, and handed the envelope to Mary.

“Here you are, Dr Morstan. This is the best I can do without further chemical analysis; but I’m sure it will be enough.”

“So am I,” Mary put the envelope into her handbag. “Thank you, Ms Acquah, for sacrificing your morning for this. We’re in your debt.”

“Not at all!” the museum director assured. “It was my pleasure; it’s not often that I get to examine a rare treasure like this. Tell me one thing, though: is there a chance that I’ll ever learn what this is all about?”

“Not from the press; I’m quite sure about that,” Mary said thoughtfully. “But when it’s over, I promise to sit down with you by whatever is your preferred drink and tell you as much as they’re likely to tell _me_ – even though that probably won’t be very much.”

“That’s a deal,” Ms Acquah grinned and Mary, armed with certificate that would be her entrance into the Baron’s house, left the museum.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
She returned home for lunch, mostly because she knew that on a busy day like this John tended to forget about eating. As much as he nagged Sherlock about _his_ eating habits – or the lack thereof – the good Doctor Watson wasn’t the epitome of a healthy lifestyle, either. Mary had been working on the problem ever since they’d got together, but it promised to be a long ongoing project with many potential setbacks.

She just got home in time to save a harried-looking John from a very insistent woman of about forty who tried to get into the practice, in spite of the fact that the morning consulting hours were well over and John had already hung up the NOON BREAK: 12 – 14 P.M. sign.

The woman didn’t seem particularly ill – she was clearly the type that liked to misuse her doctor as an emotional dung heap – so Mary simply steered her out in a friendly yet firm manner.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but as you can see we’ve closed half an hour ago. You can always make an appointment when you call us during consulting ours; or online, if you prefer the internet. But Doctor Watson needs his break now to be full there for the afternoon patients. Good day!”

And with that, she closed the door behind the annoying bitch. John just stood there and stared her with naked admiration in his eyes.

“How do you do that?” he asked. I’ve been trying to get rid of her for at least twenty minutes.”

“Yes, because you’re too nice,” Mary replied, patting him on the back. “Some people never listen, unless you’re really firm with them. You’re made of kittens, love; too soft for your own good.”

That statement was so hilarious that John laughed hysterically for several minutes, until his eyes started tearing up.

“You seem to forget that I was a soldier,” he then said, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his jumper. “I served in a war zone, you know. I _killed_ people.”

“You had no other choice, I guess,” Mary ushered him over to the flat, right into the kitchen. “Now, make some tea while I make the sandwiches; or are you not hungry?”

“Starving, actually,” John rolled up his sleeves and scrubbed his hands and forearms, up to the elbows – an old routine left from his training as a surgeon – and went to contribute his part to the lunch preparations.

The following hour was spent in blessed domesticity – if one didn’t count the sixteen text messages from Sherlock who was clearly growing more impatient by the minute, and the one voicemail message from Baron Adelbert Gruner personally. 

The latter one was for Mary, answering her note sent to Vernon Lodge last evening, telling her that the Baron would be happy to welcome her in his house at 7 p.m.

“Well, that’s settled, then,” Mary said. “Tell Sherlock that the game’s on and we’re in. Perhaps he’ll stop bombarding you with texts then.”

“ _Nothing_ stops Sherlock texting people,” John muttered but did as he was told. Then he looked at the kitchen clock. “When is Molly coming?”

Mary grinned. “Right when you open up the practice again.”

“You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?” John asked accusingly, and Mary nodded, without the slightest trace of remorse.

“Of course. Make-over is a girl thing; men have no business to watch it. You’ll see the results first anyway.”

That consoled John a little and they chatted about everything and nothing (everything _but_ the case, that is) until it became 2 p.m. and John had to return to work.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Molly arrived ten minutes later and, to Mary’s surprise, she brought Sarah Sawyer with her.

“This is my extra afternoon off,” Sarah explained cheerfully, “and a make-over party is too much fun to miss. Besides, Molly needed help with that thing.”

 _That thing_ was a large, old-fashioned suitcase; quite full and, by the way they dragged it behind them, fairly heavy as well. _Why_ they’d brought it was beyond Mary’s wildest imagination.

“These are the clothes of my Aunt Tilly,” Molly explained, blushing a little. “I mean, from the time when she was young, you know. They practically count as vintage by now, I guess, and since you said you were aiming for the Mad Spinster look, I thought… They’ve been dry cleaned, too, and in a good condition, I wouldn’t bring you something that wasn’t…”

“Molly,” Sarah hugged her briefly. “Calm down, girl, there’s no need to panic. I’m sure the clothes are great. Why don’t we hang them up to see which ones would fit Mary best?”

Suddenly Mary was grateful that Sarah had come, too. Molly was a sweet girl but lacked confidence just about everywhere outside the morgue, and as much as Mary loved her – which she really did – her nervous fluttering could sometimes drive on up the walls. Mary ruefully admitted that she was too impatient to deal with _that_ for too long.

Sarah, on the other hand, could handle Molly wonderfully. It had nothing to do with being a doctor. It was simply nurturing nature, which Sarah had in spades, while Mary… well, not so much.

Sometimes she wondered if John wouldn’t be better off with Sarah, after all. In such times she was grateful for Sherlock being… well, _Sherlock_. Had he not alienated Sarah (or Jeanette, or Janet, or any of the other ones), John would have been married years before she’d actually met him.

The thought that she’d only found John because Sherlock had left, leaving behind a broken man, could be sobering. Rising to the challenge of having Sherlock in John’s life (and in the first place always, even though he _did_ try to walk the tightrope between his wife and his demanding best friend) was exhausting, exhilarating, maddening and, before everything else, challenging.

Which was why she needed Molly and Sarah to support her. Because they both knew Sherlock and what he was like and his unique place in John’s life – and what it meant to compete with him for John’s affection.

“All right,” she said, sternly ordering her never-ending jealousy back to the deepest recesses of her heart where it belonged. “Let’s take a look at the clothes first. _Then_ we’ll colour my hair. God, I haven’t been a brunette since the age of fifteen; I so hoped I’d never have to be one again!”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan was _not_ a happy woman. She never liked babysitting witnesses; especially crack whores out of their minds, having been forced to go cold turkey. They were always bothersome: either raving mad, trying to bolt any given minute, or miserable wrecks, drowning in self-pity and whining all the time, accusing everybody but themselves for their misery.

Kitty Winter, presumably the key witness in the case against Baron Adelbert Gruner, was the second type – with a twist. Instead of whining and complaining, she was raving and cursing and muttering vile threats against the Baron and swearing to made him pay. Pathetic, really; but also unnerving.

Donovan had been given the file of the Baron, of course. _Including_ what Doctor Watson had found out about the highly suspicious death of Major Winter and the mysterious disappearance of his only daughter. She also knew that the Freak had been after the Baron – until he got beaten to bloody pulp by some thugs hired by Gruner. 

At least that was what Lestrade thought. Which meant that Miss Winter _might_ be the next target and therefore needed to be protected.

Donovan understood that. It was standard police procedure, after all. She even understood why _she_ had been chosen for the unpleasant task. Any woman determined enough to bolt could fool a man trying to keep her from doing so. They would have a much harder job with another woman. Especially with her; she was a resolute, no-nonsense officer, immune against tearful scenes and begging. She would protect addicted witnesses – despite themselves, if she had to do.

Which still didn’t mean that she had to _like_ it. She emphatically didn’t. She had no patience – or compassion, for that matter – for spoiled, posh girls who spent Daddy’s money on the wrong man and then whined about the general unfairness of life.

If she allowed herself to be honest, she admitted that this was the reason why she hated the Freak so much. 

Not because of his arrogance. Not because of the way he made them all look like idiots most of the time. Not even because of his scathing deductions and complete tactlessness with which he blurted out his observations, without even thinking about the consequences. She had come to understand that his brutal honesty was just a symptom for his lack of social skills. The price he had to pay for being a genius.

No, what she truly hated him for was his privileged background. The fact that he could afford stunts that would land other people in an arrest cell. That no matter what shit he’d come up with, that annoying brother of his would appear and haul him out unharmed.

That he’d been put into an expensive rehab clinic, with all the other posh gits, to get therapy, while the less privileged addicts ended up in some filthy public toilet, setting the golden shot when they couldn’t bear the horrors of their addiction any longer. Like that poor Ashton.

She clenched her teeth, forcing the tears back. This wasn’t the time to break down; she had a job to do. Ashton has been dead for over six years, beyond anyone’s help. Allowing the past to distract her from her current task could prove fatal.

She stood with a heartfelt grown and began her hourly control tour. Windows and front door closed and safely locked – check. Bathroom empty and dark, barely illuminated by the matte emergency light – check. 

Apparently, her charge has already finished the evening routine of sobbing, cursing, throwing up, brushing her teeth and showering for the sixth time within the day. It seemed a bit early at half past eight, but as the drugs began to wear off, Miss Winter did grow more sleepy between two manic bouts. Perhaps she’d managed to exhaust herself enough to turn in early.

Or so Donovan hoped. She could use an early night, too. Even if it meant to rest with an eye open.

She checked Miss Winter’s bedroom next. The door stood half-ajar, so that the light of the front room fell into it a little She could see the closed blinds on the windows and the human-shaped lump on the bed, facing away from her. 

Good. Perhaps the stupid git _would_ stay put for the rest of the night.

Donovan turned back to the bathroom, intending to grab a quick shower; a small luxury that she felt she deserved, considering that she’d have to sleep fully clothed and clinging to her gun. Witness protection wasn’t an easy job, which was why Lestrade assigned her to such tasks fairly often. Especially if the witness they had to protect was… complicated, to put it mildly.

She just reached the bathroom door when she heard the soft footsteps behind her. She whirled around on instinct, gun in the hand and ready, when white-hot pain exploded in her head – and then everything went dark.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Her phone on the kitchen table rang several times during the next three hours before switching to voice mail that went unheard. Half a dozen text messages arrived with the usual _ping_ sound during the same interval of time and remained unanswered, leaving the callers puzzled.

Lying on the floor, unconscious and bleeding from a head wound, Sally Donovan knew nothing about these events.


	16. The Excellent Adventure of Dr Mary Morstan

**Chapter 15 – The Excellent Adventure of Dr Mary Morstan**

**September 16th 2014**

It was with considerable excitement that Mary set off on her own adventure on the same evening. Of the clothes left behind by Molly’s late aunt, she’d chosen a rather unflattering, pussy-bow satin blouse with long sleeves that were gathered by unnecessarily broad cuffs, with a long, black skirt that reached to id-calf and slightly old-fashioned, low-heel shoes.

The matching black vintage jacket had exaggerated shoulder pads – a fashion style that she personally found ugly and that, unfortunately, was coming back again. She parted her now dark hair in the middle and twisted it into a French knot on the nape of her neck, adding a small beret in cream-coloured velvet for the effect. She even wore gold-rimmed eyeglasses – genuine ones, prescribed her half a year previously; she just always forgot about them because they were not very strong.

She checked her image in the mirror and nodded in satisfaction. She looked suitably elegant, but in a somewhat dull, spinster style – which was exactly what he’d aimed for. Her handbag of cream-coloured leather was just a hint too large – she normally used it as a medical kit – but had the advantage that she could store the priceless little saucer within it safely, wrapped in several layers.

“I feel a bit like Mary Poppins,” she said after a last, critical look, “but it will have to do.”

“You look as beautiful as ever,” John assured, giving her the puppy-eyed routine. “Now, let’s go. Sherlock – or rather Mycroft, I’d say – got us a cab.”

“Did they think we’re unable to get one ourselves?” Mary asked, slightly annoyed. 

She didn’t like Mycroft’s occasional meddling any more than John did,

“Not an ordinary cab,” John explained. “This one comes with a driver.”

“Most cabs do,” Mary reminded him. John grinned.

“Yeah, but most cab drivers aren’t on Mycroft’s _special_ paylist.”

“Oh,” Mary finally got the hint. Not just a driver then but a bodyguard, too. Presumably a trained monkey of whatever organisation Mycroft Holmes really had at his disposal, capable of killing a man with a salt shaker in twenty-seven different way.

Well, that could come in handy. Except… Mary shot her husband a worried look.

“You won’t mind? I know how much you hate his meddling.”

John shook his head. “If it means to get you back safely? Not the least. Well, let’s go, Dr Morstan, it would be unwise to make the Baron wait.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Mycroft’s driver – a spiky-haired, young blond man named Simmonds (though that probably wasn’t his true name) – drove them to Vernon Lodge quickly and safely. Mary had the nagging suspicion that the engine of the ordinary-looking cab had been tuned up seriously – it went too smoothly for still being the regular item.

John got off the cab before it would turn into the long, winding drive that led up to the house, with banks of rare shrubs on either side. He was supposed to go the longer way around, meet Sherlock and get into the house through the garden laying it. He tucked his gun in the waistband of his jeans, which didn’t make Mary feel any better.

“Be careful, love,” she murmured.

“You, too,” John replied, and then he was gone.

Young Mr Simmonds (“Just Simmonds, ma’am, plain and simple”) pulled up the cab into a great, gravelled square that was adorned with statues. Visibly old ones, at that, which matched the ambiente perfectly, but that was to be expected from an aristocrat interested in art anyway.

Beyond the square stood Vernon Lodge, in all its nightmarish pomp: a long, low house with turrets at each corner. It gave one the uncomfortable impression of a fortress… and a rather impenetrable one. For the first time, Mary felt her stomach shrink to the size of a shrivelled lemon with fear and wished she could back off the whole affair.

Unfortunately, it was already too late for that. Sherlock and John counted on her; their safety was depending on her skills to distract the Baron. Like it or not, she had to get on with the charade.

“Ms Morstan?”

She realised that Simmonds was talking to her. Probably had been for a few moments already.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I was having a brief moment of panic here. You were saying?”

“I said I’ll drive the cab away and hide it outside of the range of any possible surveillance devices,” Simmonds repeated. “You’ve got your panic button in the clasp of your handbag; don’t hesitate to push it if you have to, but consider that I’ll need approximately thirty-five seconds to reach you. Forty, if I have to incapacitate any personnel.”

“I understand,” Mary said. “Well, I’ll have to get in before the Baron becomes suspicious, haven’t I? Let’s do this before I lose my nerves completely.”

Simmonds gallantly helped her out of the cab and she paid his fees without making a great show of it. Over-acting would have been a serious mistake. Then the cab left, and she headed for the house, ignoring the awful sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

She could do this. She _would_ do this, for John’s sake; and to show Sherlock and that pompous brother of his that she can keep up with them if she had to.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Sherlock had prepared her fort he butler straight out of _Downton Abbey_ ; she still was a bit intimidated by the man, though, as she followed him to the Baron’s study.

“Dr Morstan for you, sir,” the butler announced, leaving her alone in the Baron’s presence, who was standing in front of an open cabinet between the windows, containing part of his Chinese collection. 

At the announcement, he turned around, with a small brown vase in his hand.

“Welcome, Ms Morstan,” he said, using his considerable charm and waving with his free hand towards the overstuffed armchairs standing around a small, marble-plated coffee table. “Please, have a seat.”

Mary took the proffered seat, smoothing her skirt under herself and placing her handbag on the tabletop with conscious care. She was playing the role of a fastidious lady doctor beyond her first youth, and details were important.

“Thank you,” she said, a little feebly.

“I was just looking over my treasures,” the Baron said conversationally. “Wondering whether I could really afford to add tot hem. This little Tang specimen,” he waved the vase, “which dates from the seventh century, would probably interest you.”

“I honestly doubt it,” Mary replied with blunt frankness; her best chance was to tell the truth as far as possible. “It is beautiful, yes, but I haven’t got the slightest idea about ancient pottery, Chinese or otherwise. Which is why I took _my_ little pieces to the _National Antiquities Museum_ : to have them valued and certified.”

With that, she took the certification from her handbag and offered it to the Baron.

Gruner seemed taken aback with so much straightforward honesty, but pulled himself back together quickly enough and accepted the document, studying it thoroughly.

“Well, the certificate seems to be genuine enough,” he then said. “I don’t presume you have the actual items on you so that I could take a look myself?”

Mary gave him a brief, business-like smile. 

“I didn’t think an expert like you would ever consider buying something you haven’t had the chance to examine first,” she replied. “I’ve brought _one_ of the saucers. I don’t have a complete set, of course – who does nowadays? – but I own four corresponding pieces altogether.”

She carefully unpacked the borrowed saucer and handed it to the Baron, who sat down to his desk, pulled over the lamp, as it was growing dark, and set himself to examine it. In the harsh light of the lamp Mary had the excellent chance to study his face.

He was a good-looking man; one had to give him that. Not very tall, but trim and of predatory grace that likely hid considerable physical strength. His tanned face was sharply featured, almost Oriental, with deep-set dark eyes and wavy black hair – the perfect image of the Latin lover many young and impressionable women – especially the not too intelligent yet wealthy sort – often found so irresistibly. Only his straight, thin-lipped mouth, with those fine, cruel lines around the corners, belied the illusion.

Unfortunately, wealthy young women – or not so young, bored and dissatisfied ones – rarely looked beyond the first impression. Which still didn’t explain Violet Merville’s obsession with the man; according to Sherlock, she was neither stupid, nor easily impressed.

“Very fine – very fine indeed,” the Baron finally said. “And you say you have three other pieces to correspond?”

“Yes, I do., “Mary hoped she sounded convincing. She was a better liar than John but still no match for a criminal mastermind.

“Excellent,” the Baron murmured. “It does puzzle me, though, that I’ve never heard of such magnificent specimen being on the market. Would it be indiscreet if I were to ask you, Ms Morstan, how did you obtain this?”

“Not at all,” Mary replied. “My father, the late Captain Morstan, served on various posts in China… or rather Hong Kong, Singapore and Taiwan. These saucers were in his legacy, which I only received two years ago, through his former associates. I had no idea about their true value until I took them to the museum. I’m sure you agree that the piece is unique – but how it came into my father’s possession I don’t know.”

“Very mysterious,” the Baron said with a quick, suspicious flash of his dark eyes. “In dealing with objects of such value I naturally prefer to know all about the transaction. That the piece is genuine is certain; about _that_ I have no doubts. But I have to take every possibility into account. What if it should prove afterwards that you had no right to sell?”

“In that case I’d hardly have gone with it to a museum, of all places,” Mary pointed out logically. “And I’ve already sold other small objects from my father’s legacy through the auction houses. You can easily check it if you want.”

“Perhaps,” the Baron allowed, not reassured at all. “And yet the whole transaction strikes me as rather unusual.”

“You can do business with me or not,” Mary replied with well-feigned indifference. “I have given you the first offer as I understood that you were an expert and a devout collector – and because I’d prefer to have the money sooner rather than later. But I shall have no difficulty selling it through _Christie’s_ or _Sotheby’s_ ; it would take longer, though, and time is something of an issue for me right now.”

“Who told me I was an expert?” the Baron asked.

“Ms Acquah from the _National Antiquities Museum_ , “Mary answered truthfully. “She also recommended me the book you’ve written on the topic.”

“Have you read the book?”

“Yes; not that I’d understand much,” Mary admitted honestly. “I trusted Ms Acquah that you’d know what you’re talking about.”

“I find it surprising that Ms Acquah of all people would send you to me,” the Baron said with a cruel little smile. “She’s not exactly friendly towards me.”

“No, she hates you with a passion,” Mary agreed. “But the museum couldn’t afford to buy my saucers, and I asked her for a private collector who could, so that I wouldn’t have to wait for an auction; and the only such collector with enough money she could think of were you. I asked for somebody who would value the little things, not just purchase them for the monetary value.”

“If they are so precious to you, Ms Morstan, then I wonder why you are so eager to sell,” the Baron said slowly.

“It’s _Doctor_ Morstan,” Mary corrected. “I’m not happy to have to sell them, but my little practice is still in its baby steps, and the mortgage isn’t easy to pay. If I want to keep the practice – _and_ my independence as a GP – I need money, and I need it as soon as possible. I don't want to be part of a large Group Practice- so impersonal when patients never see the same doctor twice. Owning precious trinkets is nice when one’s already rich, as I’m sure you’d agree. But being a doctor is infinitely more important for me. It’s that simple.”

She was getting impatient and more than a little nervous, which, she knew, was a mistake. The Baron caught on her nervosity and was glaring at her steadily.

“Somehow I don’t believe that it would truly be that simple,” he said with a smile that had more teeth than it would have been strictly necessary.

“Well, I can’t force you to believe me, of course,” Mary managed to wrap the precious saucer again without dropping it and stored it safely away in her handbag. “And since we apparently aren’t going to come into business today, I think it will be best for me to leave now.”

She only hoped that Sherlock and John would have finished their little breaking and entering act in the meantime, because she really couldn’t see how to buy them any more time.

“That’s what you think, yes?” the Baron asked with a mocking smile. “Well, my dear Dr Morstan, you may find it harder to get out than to get in.”

He rose slowly, deliberately, and Mary made an involuntary step back, fumbling with the clasp of her handbag and hoping that Mycroft’s young agent hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d promised to reach her within forty seconds after operating the panic button. The Baron spotted her doing so, of course, and was now glaring at her menacingly.

“So, that’s the game, isn’t it? You’re here as a spy. You’re an agent of Holmes, aren’t you? This is a trick that you’re playing on me – since he’s presumably dying he sends his tools to keep watch upon me. Well, we’ll see how he’ll like the results; _if_ he lives long enough to watch the footage.”

He opened one of the side drawers of his desk and rummaged around in it furiously, presumably for some sort of weapon, when he suddenly heard something from the room behind the desk. For a moment, he stood there, petrified, listening intently. Then he cried out in wordless rage, tore the door open and dashed into the back room.

Mary, followed by the highly efficient Agent Simmonds who had indeed arrived in the meantime, ran after him.

They came into a much smaller room; the one that, according to Miss Winter, was the Baron’s inner study. The window leading out to the garden was wide open… and so was the old-fashioned little bureau in the corner. One of its drawers lay on the floor, probably dropped by accident, its contents scattered around.

Next to the bureau stood Sherlock, wearing one of his sharp suits and a white bandage around his head, deadly pale but smiling with an unholy glee. In his hand he held the Baron’s little leather-bound book of dirty secrets.

When he saw the Baron entering, he simply stepped onto the windowsill and jumped out of the window, into the garden. It couldn’t have been a very lucky jump, as Mary could clearly hear the crash of his body among the laurel bushes outside and John’s anxious demands if he was all right.

With a howl of rage, the Baron rushed after him to the open window.


	17. Hell Hath No Fury

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the dialogue is loosely based on the original short story. I also followed the treatment suggested by ACD. I imagine there are more up-to-date methods, but Mary had no other means to provide first aid in the situation.
> 
>  **Warning:** some gruesome images in this chapter!

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 16 – HELL HATH NO FURY**

**September 16th 2014**

With a howl of rage, the Baron rushed after Sherlock to the open window.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Mary followed him without thinking, Agent Simmonds hot on her heels. Before they could have reached the window, though, they were stopped by a horrible cry – rather a scream, actually, the likes of which could only have been caused by searing pain. 

It was hard to imagine that such a high-pitched sound would come from someone like Baron Gruner. Nonetheless, that was the case.

Gruner reeled back from the window, both hands clapped to his face, and stumbled around the room as if possessed by temporary insanity. He even banged his head against the wall a few times. Then he lost his balance and fell upon the carpet, rolling and whining like a wounded animal.

“Water! For God’s sake, water!” he begged in a horrible, gurgling voice.

Agent Simmonds grabbed a carafe from a side table and rushed to his aid. Mary, however, stopped him before he could have doused the wounded man.

“Wait; I need to see first what’s happened to him, otherwise we could do more harm than good.”

She knelt by the injured man and turned him towards the light of the lamp. The sight of the damage was so awful that she needed all her professional strength _not_ to become violently ill. The sounds coming from behind her revealed that Agent Simmonds was less than successful trying to do the same.

The Baron’s face showed the typical damage caused by an attack with sulphuric acid. The liquid – supposedly derived from some kind of drain cleaner – was eating into his skin everywhere and dripping from the ears and the chin. One eye was already white and glazed. The other was red and inflamed. The handsome, hawkish features Mary had admired a few minutes before were now literally dissolving in front of her eyes. They were blurred. Discoloured. Inhuman. Terrible.

“What happened?” the butler, who’d just come running, alarmed by his master’s horrible screams, asked in shock, his carefully cultivated accent gone.

“Acid attack,” Mary explained curtly. “I need your help. I must provide first aid, or there won’t be anything left for the plastic surgeon to save.”

“I can fetch some water,” the butler offered uncertainly, and Mary nodded.

“Do it; but bring me lukewarm, slightly soapy water. You can’t just douse burns caused by sulphuric acid; it would grow even hotter when water is added to the acid, and the poor wretch is suffering enough as it is. Still, it’s better to flush the area than leave the acid on the skin. And I’ll need oil; pure olive oil. And some cotton wool if you have them in the house.”

The butler nodded and scurried away, glad to be spared the horrible sight. Mary looked over her shoulder at Agent Simmonds who was still more than a little green around the gills but seemed to have recovered from his first shock.

“Call an ambulance. Tell them we’ve got a patient with severe acid burns and to hurry up if they’d like to save any of his face. _Then_ call Detective Inspector Lestrade and inform him about what happened here. Oh, and while you’re doing that, pick up John from the garden and send him in. He usually has some first aid material on him; and he’s better at dealing with severe traumata than I am. He’s the one who used to be a battlefield trauma surgeon, after all.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Agent Simmonds took the shortest way by climbing out of the window, and a moment later Mary could hear him making the requested calls. The butler returned in the meantime, bringing the soapy water and the oil Mary had asked for – and, completely on his own initiative, a pair of rubber gloves. Mary nodded her thanks and began to remove the rest of the acid from the Baron’s ruined face with cotton wool pads soaked in the water, while the injured man kept raging and raving against his attacker.

“It was that stupid bitch, Kitty Winter!” he howled. “That stupid, vengeful, two-faced beast! She’ll pay for this! Oh, she’ll pay! Damn you, woman, can’t you give me something against the pain? It’s more than I can bear! What kind of doctor _are_ you?”

“One without a medical kit on her hands,” Mary replied, while bathing his face with oil and putting cotton wool on the raw surfaces. “I wasn’t expecting to answer a house call tonight, you see.”

“No, I don’t _see_ ,” the Baron wailed. “My eyes… I’ll never see again, will I?”

To Mary’s shocked surprise, he clung to her hands as if she had the power to actually help him; to clear those dead-fish eyes that stared up at her, unseeing. She felt uncomfortable, almost sick as she felt the pawing of his burning hands and was relieved when John finally stormed into the room.

She was even more relieved to see that John had the emergency medical kit on him; although, given Sherlock’s condition, she could have expected it.

“Oh John, thank God!” she breathed, almost weeping with relief. “I did what I could, but this is beyond my expertise.”

“You did well; there’s very little that can be done without the right equipment,” John replied soothingly, already fishing a syringe and a disposable needle from his kit. “Now, Mr Gruner, I’m going to give you a hypodermic of morphine against the pain. The rest is up to A & E and later to a specialist.”

“Shouldn’t you have asked about the morphine first?” Mary asked, watching John administer the hypodermic. “What if he reacts like Sherlock?”

“That can’t be helped now,” John removed the needle and put it back into its torn plastic bag, making a mental note to throw it into the biohazard bin at the practice. “He’d have started to claw off what’s left from his face otherwise. He’ll just have to deal with the after-effects. This is still the lesser evil.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Mary reluctantly admitted that he was right. Fortunately, a few minutes later they could hear the howling of sirens, and the ambulance car pulled up on the gravelled square in front of the house. Paramedics came running with a gurney, lifted the Baron upon it and spirited him away.

“I’ll go with them,” John said to Mary. “You stay here; Lestrade will have to question you about the circumstances of the attack. Tell him to send some uniformed coppers to the hospital, just in case one of the Baron’s associates thinks that removing him from the game would be a good idea.

Mary nodded in resignation. Sherlock was long gone, of course, doing who knew what with the Baron’s incriminating little book; it seemed she’d have to face the music alone. Unless one counted Agent Simmonds, although the chance that he’d actually answer _any_ question was astronomically small.

Which reminded her of something.

“Listen, Mr Simmonds…” she began.

“Just Simmonds, ma’am, plain and simply Simmonds,” he insisted.

Mary rolled her eyes but was too worn out to fight with him about technicalities.

“Whatever. Listen, I think it would be better if the police didn’t find you here… _or_ this expensive little piece of china,” she waved in the direction of her handbag. “Honestly, I’d be relieved if it could find its way back to your boss unharmed. It makes me _very_ nervous to have it here. Can you do this to me?”

“I could,” Simmonds replied, “but Mr Holmes would skin me alive if I left you here alone.”

“Fine, can you call _somebody_ who’ll take it then?” Mary insisted. “Please, I don’t want it to remain in my handbag. I want to know that it’s stored away safely.”

“I can do _that_ , “Simmonds agreed and made a quick phone call.

Only minutes later another black car arrived and out got Anthea in her usual uniform of little black dress and high heels, BlackBerry chemically glued to her palm. She glanced up briefly and gave Mary a vague smile.

“Mr Holmes is pleased with the results,” she told them. “I’m taking the saucer. Agent Simmonds will stay here until the police are finished and take you back to Queen Anne Street.”

And with that, she accepted the carefully wrapped antiquity from Mary, climbed back into the car and drove off at leisurely speed. Mary stared after her in dismay; a feeling that, at least partly, originated from the unfair fact that Anthea _always_ looked so beautiful.

“Bitch,” she commented summarily. “To think that poor John tried to chat her up the first time they meet… Who does she think she is?”

“It’s not _who_ she is that counts,” Simmonds replied, clearly sharing her feelings but too careful to actually voice them. “What matters is _what_ she is.”

Mary raised an eyebrow. “And that would be?”

“The long arm of Mr Holmes,” Simmonds answered simply.

“ _How_ long exactly?” Mary asked quietly, surprised to have given even that much of an answer.

The young man hesitated for a moment, as if he’d already said too much.

“Believe me, ma’am,” he then replied slowly. “You don’t really want to know. It’s healthier that way.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Mary was an inquisitive soul by her very nature but she recognised a serious warning if she was given one. So she wisely shut up, trying to decide what to do until the police would arrive. 

There weren’t many choices, to tell the truth. Especially as it was fully dark now and it started raining. Just what she needed.

Fortunately for her, Lestrade seemed to be suffering from chronic insomnia because he arrived shortly after Anthea had left. He looked like the cat that had got the cream, despite the dark smudges of exhaustion under his eyes.

“Hullo Dr Morstan,” he greeted her jovially. “I heard you brought down Baron Gruner single-handedly? Congratulations. We’ve been after him for ages, but the guy’s slippery like an eel; he always managed to wiggle free… until now.”

“It wasn’t me,” Mary replied flatly. “I don’t throw sulphuric acid in people’s face; not even if they’re disgusting pigs.”

“That’s what happened?” Lestrade asked in surprise. “An acid attack?”

Mary gave Agent Simmonds an accusing look. “I thought you told the Detective Inspector what happened.”

“I told him that the Baron was severely injured by a third party and that Mr Holmes – the _younger_ Mr Holmes – now has ample evidence to get him into prison for e very long time, thanks to your courage, ma’am,” Simmonds explained.

Lestrade shot him a baleful glare. “And who the hell are _you_? No, wait, don’t tell me. You called Sherlock ‘the _younger_ Mr Holmes’, so you must be one of Mycroft’s lackeys.”

If the young man took offence because of the rather derogatory description of his job, he gave no sign of it. He probably got _that_ a lot, Mary supposed.

“Yes, I do work for Mr Holmes,” he replied simply. “In this particular case my job was to drive Dr Morstan and to ensure her safety. That’s what I’ve been trained for and what I usually do.”

“I see,” Lestrade muttered and indeed, he did. It made perfect sense for Mycroft to protect John’s wife; especially if Mary took considerable personal risks to help along one of Sherlock’s cases. A case in which Mycroft most likely had a personal – or professional – interest.

“So, what about this acid attack?” he then asked. “Who attacked the Baron and how did they manage to get close enough to be able to do so?”

“Neither of us did actually _see_ how it happened,” Agent Simmonds explained. “Dr Morstan activated her panic button, so I came immediately, as previously agreed. It took me thirty-four seconds to get from the car to the Baron’s study; fortunately, I didn’t meet any resistance.”

Lestrade didn’t doubt for a moment that any resistance offered would have been moved down without a second thought. Or a first one, for that matter.

“What did you actually see?” he asked, wanting to be given more detail.

“When I came in, the door to the inner study was already open and Mr Holmes – Mr _Sherlock_ Holmes – was standing on the windowsill,” Simmonds continued. “A moment later he jumped and, by the sound of it, had a rather hard landing outside.”

“He tends to do that,” Lestrade muttered. “Somebody really ought to break him out of the stupid habit. What about the Baron?”

“He ran to the window, only to stumble backwards in the next moment and scream like a gutted pig,” Simmonds summarised the event succinctly.

Lestrade refrained from pointing out the fact that a pig already gutted wouldn’t make much noise. Somehow he had the feeling that trying simple logic on one of Mycroft’s people would be a hopeless undertaking. Besides, the description had been very suggestive, even if beyond anatomical possibilities.

Jesus, he just sounded like Sherlock!

“It’s most likely that somebody threw the acid into his face from the laurel bushes below,” Mary added. “The results were… disturbing, to say the least. He’d need extensive reconstructive surgery… _if_ he survives. I’m not an expert in such things, of course, I’m just a GP, but I think one of his eyes is beyond help already; whether they can save the other one is doubtful.”

“And you have no idea who could have done this to him?” Lestrade asked, frustrated. “Could Sherlock or John have seen the attacker?”

Mary shook her head. “I don’t think so. I heard John asking Sherlock if he was still in one piece; then he came in to help me treating the Baron as well as we could until the ambulance arrived. He didn’t have the time to look for the attacker.”

“The Baron did insist that he knew who it was, though,” Simmonds said. “A woman, apparently.”

Lestrade perked up like a bloodhound when finding a fresh tail. “Was it now? Are you sure about that?”

Mary nodded. “Yes, he kept repeating that it was Kitty Winter; and how she would pay for this.”

“That’s impossible,” Lestrade said firmly. “Miss Winter is securely tucked away in a safe house with Donovan.”

 

“Hmmm…” Mary bit her lip. “When did you last check upon them, Detective Inspector?”

Lestrade gave her a bewildered look. “I haven’t. Why should I? Donovan reports in from a pre-paid phone every four hours. The last time was at six p.m.”

“Which was more than three hours ago,” Mary pointed out. “Time enough for a determined woman to incapacitate her, get a cab, come here, give the Baron an acid bath and escape in all the excitement that followed.”

Lestrade hesitated for a moment; then he fished the phone out of the inner pocket of his coat and punched in a number almost violently.

There was no answer.

He tried two more times before giving up and speed-dialling the Yard instead.

“Lestrade here,” he growled. “Send a patrol to Safe House #4 with a first aid kit. Donovan might be in trouble. Tell them to report directly to me as soon as they got there.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
While they were waiting for news about Donovan, the SOCO team arrived and began to collect forensic evidence. The butler and the other servants were most cooperative, realising that with their employer gone, this would be their best chance to get out of the whole affair relatively unharmed. Most of them had been recently employed anyway and knew night o nothing about the Baron’s shady business activities.

The butler was an exception, of course, having worked for Gruner for the last eleven years. Lestrade had him taken to the Yard – not under arrest yet, just as a source of valuable information, and he was smart enough not to offer any resistance.

The bottle of sulphuric acid – in the form of vitriol oil – was found under the laurel bushes, which had taken some damage through Sherlock landing on them, in the first twenty minutes.

“Seems this is our lucky day,” Anderson declared, checking the bottle for fingerprints and finding a lot of them. “Had it not been protected by that bush, the rain might have washed away the fingerprints. But so the evidence is undamaged. A good thing the Freak didn’t get his paws on it.”

He was soaked to the skin through his forensic coverall _and_ his clothes underneath. The water was even dripping from his newly acquired beard, and he smelled of wet dog – still there was a triumphant smile on his face. Every crime scene _without_ Sherlock’s presence was a gift of the gods for him. Especially when there was plenty of forensic evidence to save.

Lestrade wondered how he’d react if Donovan… The two might have ended their long ongoing on-off relationship, but were still close… one of the few couples that had managed to break up amiably. Of course, the fact that Anderson still had his wife probably helped.

His phone rang, and he answered anxiously. “Lestrade. Go on.”

“We’ve checked the safe house, Detective Inspector,” Detective Sergeant Andy Davidson, a competent young officer transferred from Cardiff less than a year ago, reported. “Sergeant Donovan has been knocked out cold; probably concussed. But aside from that and a big lump on the back of her head, she’s fine. Pissed off like whoa, of course, but otherwise fine.”

“Thank God!” Lestrade breathed out in relief. Donovan did have her faults, but she was still one of the best officers he’d ever had on his team. “Any trace of the witness she was supposed to protect? Although, apparently, she wasn’t the person needing protection – on the contrary.”

“Miss Winter?” Davidson asked. “You won’t believe this, Detective Inspector. She just walked into the Yard half an hour ago, as cool as you please, gave herself up and made a full confession. Detective Inspector Swanson is still putting together the full report.”

Swanson had come from Cardiff at the same time as Davidson; they had worked together before. She was a thorough, no-nonsense woman with a good head on her shoulders. If she was on the case, they could be sure that the chain of evidence would be unbroken and every piece of it would be rock-solid.

Lestrade thanked the Sergeant and hung up.

“Well, it seems that the acid attack part of the case is wrapped up,” he said. “I wonder why Miss Winter would turn herself in.”

Mary gave him a shrewd look. “Isn’t it obvious, Detective Inspector?”

“Not to me, it isn’t; don’t you try to pull a Sherlock on me, Doctor,” Lestrade warned. “So, enlighten me. Why would she do it?”

“To make sure that the Baron’s case _would_ come before the court, instead of being swept under the carpet by some important people,” Mary answered simply. “You know the saying ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned’, don’t you?”


	18. The Wages of Sin

**CHAPTER 17 – THE WAGES OF SIN**

**September 17th 2014**

“The wages of sin, Mr Holmes – the wages of sin!” Sir James said gloomily. “Sooner or later it will always come. And God knows, there was sin enough.”

It was not entirely clear _which_ Mr Holmes he was addressing, as at the moment both Holmes brothers were present in the cluttered living room of 221B. Aside from John and Mary, of course.

Mycroft, impeccably clad in his pin-striped three-piece suit (a sure sign that he’d come directly from his office, as that was what he _always_ wore to work) was sitting in Sherlock’s chair, his back rigidly straight, both hands clutching his ever-present umbrella and a pinched expression on his face. The offered cup of tea stood before him on the coffee table, untouched.

Sherlock was lingering on the sofa, wearing his blue dressing gown and his suit trousers, looking very pale and exhausted. Apart from his injuries, not even his callous attitude – much of which was learned behaviour and most likely a coping mechanism in John’s opinion – could remain untouched at the sight of the horrible damage the sulphuric acid had done to Baron Gruner’s once so handsome face.

The crime scene photos were gruesome indeed – Sir James couldn’t bear to take a second look at them.

“Still, it is a horrible thing to suffer,” the old gentleman continued. “Do you think, Dr Watson, that the damage can be undone, at least partially? I hear that reconstructive surgery can do wonders in these days.”

John shrugged. “It’s possible, I guess. It’s been done before – to a certain grade. The most famous case was that of this former model from Andover in 2008, what was her name?”

“Katie Piper,” Mary supplied. “She was on her way to have a full-time career in the media when someone threw sulphuric acid in her face. It turned out that her ex-boyfriend arranged it, out of hatred and vengeance.”

John nodded. “Right; it was a famous occasion. The surgeons of _Chelsea and Westminster Hospital_ removed all the skin from her face and then rebuilt it with skin substitute and finally a skin graft. This was the first time that the procedure would be completed in a single operation, if I’m not mistaken. She still remained blind on one eye though, the poor thing.”

“She was very brave,” Mary added. “She was the first celebrity to go public with the whole thing and showed herself after the operations, to make people aware of the fact that such things still happen. More often than one would think, in fact. And the victims are usually women.”

“Well,” Sherlock said dryly, “Miss Winters certainly did us a favour. Now that the Baron is both caught out and disfigured, Violet would re-think her decision to marry him in no time at all.”

“Oh, no!” Sir James shook his head vehemently. “Women of the Merville type don’t act like that! She would love him the more as a disfigured martyr, I fear. No, no. It is his moral side, not his physical one that we have to destroy.”

Sherlock’s hardening face revealed that he was just about to say something really disparaging about Violet Merville and thus insult the blind old fool in whose eyes the only daughter of his old friend could do no wrong. Fortunately, Mycroft recognised the danger and intervened in time.

“Fortunately, thanks to the efforts of my little brother – not to mention the courage of Dr Morstan – we have the means to do exactly that,” he glanced in Sherlock’s direction. “You do have the book, I presume?”

“Naturally,” Sherlock replied in a haughty manner and pulled the small, beautifully crafted, leather-bound book from under the Union Jack pillow.

Mary looked at it with interest. “Is this the book Miss Winters told you about?” she asked. “The Baron’s love diary?”

“His lust diary, rather,” Sherlock replied. “What’s collected in here isn’t for the faint-hearted. The moment that pathetic woman mentioned it, I realised it would be the ultimate weapon – if we could only lay our hands on it.”

“And so you decided to get it,” John said, smiling.

Sherlock nodded. “Yes. I said nothing at that time to give them any hints. Kitty Winter, in her unstable emotional state, might have given it away, For the same reason, I couldn’t employ the help of Shinwell Johnson, either. He’s close friends with the girl and might have babbled.”

“You already had a plan, though,” Mary said. “That’s why you told John to learn about Chinese pottery.”

“Of course,” Sherlock replied. “I knew I’d need a distraction.”

“Only that your plan wouldn’t have worked,” Mary pointed out mercilessly. “The Baron would have seen through John’s attempts to fool him in a minute, and you’d have been caught red-handed. Actually, you _were_.”

“And the first thing you could think of was jumping off the window, aggravating your injuries,” John added with an unhappy scowl.

“Well, I couldn’t let the Baron take his book back,” Sherlock answered logically. “That would have made the whole operation rather pointless, wouldn’t it?”

At least for _him_ it did sound logical. He had the book. The Baron wanted it back. That couldn’t be allowed. Therefore, he saved the book, regardless of personal consequences. Case closed. No need to discuss it any longer.

John, however, didn’t same to share his opinion.

“I was right behind you, idiot!” he said angrily. “I could have helped” There was no need to reinjure yourself.”

“And what would you have done from the garden, outside the house?” Sherlock asked, raising an inquisitive eyebrow. “Shot the man in the head through the window?”

John held his glare without blinking. “If I had to; yeah, I’d have shot him.”

 _It wouldn’t have been the first time, either_ , his calm, stony expression transmitted the unspoken message.

Mycroft saw it necessary to intervene again, before Sir James could learn a few things he wasn’t supposed to know.

“I for my part am grateful that it hasn’t come to that, John,” he said. “It’s better when the court deals with Baron Gruner and his past sins, if we want to use the old-fashioned term. If I may make a suggestion, Sir James?”

“Sure, Mr Holmes,” the old gentleman nodded, giving his consent in advance whatever that suggestion might be.

“I think the fee your… _client_ owes my little brother should be split this time between him and Dr Morstan,” Mycroft said, choosing his words carefully. “Her courage helped along this case a great deal, and one should remember that.”

“I didn’t do this for money!” Mary protested. “I did it to help John and Sherlock… and because it was exciting.”

“Doubtlessly,” Mycroft nodded in amiable agreement. “Nonetheless, you did take great personal risks to enable my brother to get what he needed; and such unexpected sum would help paying off the mortgage of the practice, wouldn’t it?”

“That’s an excellent suggestion, Mr Holmes,” Sir James stood. “I’ll relay it to my client. Well, I have to go. I trust that I can leave everything in your capable hands, yes?”

Mycroft nodded. “Of course, Sir James. Everything will be taken care of properly.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“What the hell is _that_ supposed to mean?” Mary demanded, after Billy had seen Sir James off and the old gentleman was driven away in a sleek black car. “Are you going to sweep everything under the carpet, after all?”

“Certainly not!” Mycroft replied indignantly. “But the case is still far from closed. It’s a good thing that the Baron cannot be taken before court just yet. His condition will give us the time to tie up some loose threads-“

“What lose threads?” John asked with a frown.

Sherlock, however, nodded in agreement.

“Violet,” he said.”

“Violet,” Mycroft agreed. “I’ve made certain… inquiries, and it seems that she and the Baron have known each other for almost sixteen years by now.”

Sherlock’s eyes went vacant for a moment, searching for a clue in his Mind Palace.

“Oh!” he then said, realisation hitting. “Violet’s skiing holiday in the Italian Alps!”

Mycroft nodded. “Obviously. It happened just before Gruner would be adopted by the _Freiherr_ von Grunewald zu Drachenfels. He was already wealthy, of course, thanks to his semi-legal business activities, but completely unknown at the time. Popular with the ladies, though; a proper Don Juan if there ever was one, albeit in a somewhat smaller scale.”

“Somehow I can’t imagine Violet falling madly in love with a rich nobody,” Sherlock commented dryly. “She never had a single romantic bone in her body. Her passion was always centered on money and success.”

“And because of that, she recognised Gruner’s potential,” Mycroft said. “According to my research, she introduced him to several rich and bored women from the upper class, some of whom she’d known from that expensive all-girl school in France where the General had sent her at a fairly young age.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me if she’d been the one who contacted the _Freiherr_ von Grunewald in the first place,” Sherlock said.

“And you’d be right,” Mycroft nodded. “The _Freiherr_ was in a very bad financial situation at the time and needed help to save his family estate desperately. Violet invited him to several of the parties her lady friends were throwing and arranged for him to meet Gruner under that disguise.”

John stared at Mycroft in shock. “You mean she was in it all the time?”

“The evidence certainly points in that direction,” Mycroft replied pedantically. “My people are still following the money trail – you can’t imagine how convulted it is! – but it seems that Violet skilfully arranged various events that enabled Gruner to meet rich women most likely to fall for his charms. Usually she wasn’t present at those events herself, so that their connection would remain secret.”

“Until last year on the _Aida_ ,” Sherlock added. “I wonder why she would suddenly decide that she wanted to marry him. Was she afraid that Gruner might drop their partnership like he dropped the other women? She wouldn’t have a personal interest in him; Violet is a cold fish.”

 _It takes one to know one_ , John thought; the twinkling of Mary’s eyes revealed that she was entertaining similar thoughts.

“That may be so,” Mycroft replied. “But if she’s capable of loving _anything_ , it’s the Merville estate.”

“Which can only be inherited through the male line,” Sherlock continued, his eyes sparkling with excitement. “Oh, this is brilliant! So she must marry _somebody_ and have a son as soon as possible, otherwise the estate would go to some remote cousin after General Merville’s death.”

“Who’s been diagnosed with progressive cancer last year,” Mycroft finished the thought. “So Violet had to hurry.”

“But why did she choose the Baron, of all men?” Mary wondered. “She could have had anyone, young and rich and pretty as she is, couldn’t she?”

“She could,” Mycroft agreed. “But I believe she knew that the Baron would try to blackmail her, too, in that case. The easiest way to keep him under control was to marry him; even though she must have known what the reaction of her – or rather her father’s – friends and family would be.”

“In that case Sir James may be right,” Mary said slowly. “She might still marry the Baron – though certainly not out of loyalty.”

“No,” Mycroft agreed. “Loyalty is not a concept that Violet would even understand. But husband and wife cannot be forced to give testimony against each other. Marriage _could_ be their escape key – if we didn’t have the Baron’s book, that is,” he looked at Sherlock. “I’ll need it.”

“You can have photocopies,” Sherlock returned.

Mycroft shook his head. “That won’t be enough; especially if there’s any evidence for Violet’s involvement.”

“There must be,” Sherlock said. “I didn’t waste my time with leafing through his conquest list, but Gruner would have wanted something to keep her from tossing _him_ to the wolves to save herself.”

“And people say that true love no longer exists,” Mary commented dryly.

“As Sherlock would tell you, people are idiots,” John replied, making calf eyes at her.

Sherlock tried very hard – and very visibly – _not_ to get sick.

“Are we really required to watch the two of you moon over each other when we’ve got important things to do?” he asked crossly.

“Of course not,” John replied. “You’re welcome to look the other way.”

The Holmes brothers produced identical eyerolls, which got completely ignored by the Watsons.

“Dr Morstan was right in _one_ thing, though,” Mycroft then said. “Your plan was haphazard at best, Sherlock. Risky, with a very slim chance to succeed.”

Sherlock glared at him with open hostility – not that _that_ would have been anything new. Their relationship might have improved in recent years, but it was still light years away from being friendly and would most likely remain so.

“Thank you so much for pointing out the glaringly obvious, Mycroft!” he snapped. “Usually, it’s John’s job, but seeing that he’s otherwise occupied at the moment… For your information, I hadn’t originally planned to enter the Baron’s house at such an early phase.”

“No?” Mycroft’s eyebrow formed a perfect arch, signalling his doubt without the necessity of any further words.

“No,” Sherlock scowled. “I’d have waited a little longer. The assault upon me gave me the chance of letting him think that I was no danger and he didn’t have to take any precautions against me at the moment. But his planned visit to the States forced my hand. If the book still existed…”

“… he’d never have left such a compromising document behind,” John finished, seeing where he was heading.

Sherlock nodded. “Exactly. So we had to act at once.”

“Couldn’t you have broken into the house at night, though?” Mary asked. “You might have been able to look for the book undisturbed.”

Sherlock shook his head. “I saw his security system during my short visit. It was one of the most advanced kinds available; probably customised, too.”

“You still could have got through it,” John said, his trust in his ex-flatmate’s abilities clearly unshaken.

“Yes, of course, but it would have required a lot of time,” Sherlock replied, “and time was not something we had aplenty. So we had to get in at daytime, while the system wasn’t activated.”

“You also needed to make sure that his attention was engaged,” Mycroft added. “That was where Dr Morstan and her little blue saucer came in.”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes; but I knew we couldn’t fool him for long. And I had to hurry, as I was only given a vague description where the book might be hidden. Fortunately, the so-called secret drawer was ridiculously obvious.”

“Show-off!” John muttered under his breath.

Of course, I couldn’t know about Miss Winter’s little partisan action,” Sherlock continued, ignoring his comment with practiced ease. “I thought Donovan was meant to keep an eye on her.”

“You can’t blame Sally for this,” John said, for fairness’s sake. “She was told to _protect_ the girl, not to watch her like a suspect. And you must admit that Miss Winter doesn’t look particularly dangerous.”

“Because she’s so tiny?” Sherlock asked with a snort. “You of all people should know better than underestimate people on the basis of their size, John.”

“Ta,” John returned dryly. “What’s gonna happen to Miss Winter now, though? She tried her damnedest to bring the case before the court, even giving herself up to the police – was that all for nothing?”

“Oh, she’ll get her trial all right; and spend long years in prison,” Mycroft said grimly. “Although not as long as she would without the extenuating circumstances that will no doubt be taken under consideration. Even judges can become sappy when a convict is young, seemingly fragile and in great distress.”

“And the Baron?” Mary insisted. “You’re not gonna let him loose, are you? That’s not what we joined the case for.”

“You can rest assured that Baron Gruner will get what he deserves, Dr Morstan,” Mycroft replied coldly. “Even if his case won’t come before the court.”

“Why not?” John challenged. “Cause your mother feels protective about his partner-in-crime? I know that equal justice for everyone is an illusion in these days, but don’t you think this goes a bit too far in the wrong direction? The families of those poor women the Baron had killed deserve to know the truth; and the satisfaction that he’d get punished.”

“And just how satisfactory would it be for them if Gruner slipped through the loopholes of justice like Moriarty did?” Mycroft asked with icy calm. “It could easily happen, you know. He is the victim of an acid attack and shrewd enough to turn it to his advantage. Whom, do you think, the jury would sympathize with if he turned up on Miss Winter’s trial with his disfigured face?”

John didn’t answer the rhetoric question because the answer would have been depressingly easy.

“And once he got them – not to mention the public – on his side, the outcome of his own trial couldn’t be predicted anymore,” Mycroft continued. “We all saw how fickle the public could be with their sympathies.”

“Especially as he wouldn’t reveal Violet’s role in the game,” Sherlock added grimly. “It would be in his best interest to protect her, in exchange of lifelong financial support.”

“Blackmail?” Mary frowned. “But we’ve got his book…”

“… which contains compromising material about women from some of the richest and most influential families in England,” Mycroft said. “The pressure _not_ to make any of that public would be enormous… and judges are only human, too.”

“So we’ve risked Mary’s life for nothing and the Baron will walk out of this thing unharmed?” John asked, stark white with anger.

Mycroft shook his head. “Oh, no. That cannot be allowed. We’ll deal with the problem outside of the court.”

“You mean you’ll have him thrown into some kind of secret governmental prison and then swallow the key and civilian rights be damned?” John clarified, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“No, that wouldn’t work, either,” Mycroft replied, completely unfazed by the accusation. “There’s no prison from which a dedicated, intelligent person could not escape, no matter how well secured. And Baron Gruner’s intelligence, albeit not quite as high as Moriarty’s was, would always hold that risk above our heads. Oh, we’ll keep him for a while… until he’s told us everything we want to know. And he _will_ tell us everything, trust me. We have the means to ensure that.”

“Yeah, like you did with Moriarty,” John spat bitterly. “A fat lot of good did _that_ do to us all – especially to Sherlock.”

Mary laid a supporting hand upon his forearm and squeezed gently, without saying a word.

Mycroft stiffened in his chair. The fall Moriarty had been one of his rare tactical errors; one he didn’t like to be reminded of. Both he and Sherlock had underestimated the mad Irish genius – and Sherlock had paid the price.

Sherlock and John both, in a matter of speaking.

Surprisingly enough, Sherlock chose to come to his brother’s rescue.

“Moriarty was a different case,” he explained. “We both thought that national secrecy would be at immediate risk. Mycroft didn’t have the _time_ to break Moriarty properly. So he did the only thing he could: gave Moriarty what Moriarty wanted.”

“And destroyed _you_ in the process,” John fumed.

Sherlock shrugged. “That wasn’t foreseeable at the time. I’d have done the same thing, under similar circumstances.”

“That still doesn’t make it right,” John said stubbornly.

“Perhaps not,” Sherlock allowed. “But it was _necessary_. Mycroft couldn’t afford another Bond Air fiasco… and I was partly responsible for _that_.”

“And so you chose the way of noble sacrifice,” John pulled a face. “You seem to have an unhealthy tendency to do that.”

Sherlock shook his head. “You still don’t understand, do you?”

“Don’t understand _what_?” John’s tone was decidedly unfriendly.

“I wasn’t Moriarty’s ultimate target, Sherlock explained. “He just played with me, enjoyed pitting his mind against mine and, I have to admit, so did I. It isn’t often that I’d get challenged by someone of my own calibre. But the one he really wanted to destroy all the time was Mycroft.”

“ _Mycroft_?” John repeated in stunned disbelief. Sherlock nodded.

“Think about it: the Bond Air fiasco, the political scandals caused by The Woman – they wouldn’t harm _me_ in any way. They all had to do with Mycroft and _his_ Work.”

The capital letter was clearly audible in the way he pronounced that all-important monosyllabic word.

“Why targeting _you_ then?” Mary asked softly.

“Because there are two things through which Mycroft defines himself: his Work and his family,” Sherlock replied. “Moriarty planned to take from him both. Had he succeeded, there wouldn’t have been anything left.”

John eyed the older Holmes brother warily.

“I though caring wasn’t an advantage,” he said.

“It isn’t,” Mycroft replied flatly. “If anything, the Moriarty crisis clearly proved _that_. It doesn’t mean that I wouldn’t care, though; just that it causes me even more work. _Especially_ when it comes to clear out the mess in Sherlock’s wake,” he added with a side glance at his brother, whose only answer was an unfriendly glare.

John thought about what had been said for a while. He had to admit that a man as shrewd as the Baron could have easily won the sympathies for his care. After all, _his_ crimes were, for the most part, well-concealed; while everyone with eyes to see could see the horrible damage done to _him_. He might indeed get away unpunished – just as Moriarty had.

And even if he’d have to go to prison, he might have the means to escape. He had his minions, just as Moriarty had. Not such an intricate web of high-class crimes, perhaps, stretching across several continents, but doubtlessly a well-organised one. The assault upon Sherlock and the case of that French agent – the one who’d been crippled to the heavy beating he’d received – clearly showed that Gruner’s arm, too, was long.

“So, what are you going to do with the Baron then?” John asked. “Arrange an unfortunate accident for him?”

“Nothing so mundane,” Mycroft replied. “As soon as we’re done with him, he’s going to commit suicide in his hospital room; unable to face the public trial as a witness in Miss Winter’s case, disfigured and half-blind as he is.”

“But the trial won’t be for some time yet,” John reminded him. “Time enough for fixing most of the damage. The surgical technology already exists and has been applied successfully in Katie Piper’s case. I’m sure that a rich man like Gruner could afford such an operation.”

“Oh, but Baron Gruner’s accounts have been frozen for the duration of the investigation of his financial transactions in the last fifteen years,” Mycroft replied blandly. “And I’m sure you’ll agree with me if I say that we shouldn’t waste the taxes of British citizens on reconstructive surgery for a man who used his good looks to prey upon naïve, innocent women of good families.”

“Rich and stupid bints, you mean,” Sherlock commented.

John gave him a warning glare that got promptly ignored by Sherlock.

“I wonder how you’ll get him to off himself, though,” he then said to Mycroft.

“I can be very persuasive if I put my mind to it,” Mycroft replied with a saccharine smile. “Besides, my people are known for taking the initiative if necessary. Let’s just say that they won’t wait for Gruner to make up his mind; and the evidence will be solid enough that no-one save Sherlock himself would suspect anything.”

More than ever before John understood why Sherlock called his brother ‘the most dangerous man you’ve ever met'.

“Fortunately for him and his idiot minions, I don’t accept cases from the British jail system,” Sherlock added loftily.

“Quite,” Mycroft agreed. “The Baron’s reputation as a notorious Don Juan will only serve to make his suicide look more believable. The press will _love_ the story.”

“What a shame that you had to destroy the career of that poor Kitty Riley,” Sherlock commented, and the expression of regret on his face was so hideously false it made John’s teeth ache. “She’d be the right person to write the stunning revelation article. She was _so_ good at selling fake stories.”

“Yes, it’s unfortunate that no newspaper will ever employ her again, after taking down the editor of _The Sun_ with her due to her action for libel,” Mycroft nodded. “But I’m sure she’ll learn to love a dull, uneventful life where collecting her unemployment check counts as the big event of the month. Not to mention the excitement of finding ways to earn some more money, so that she can pay you the reparation sum, unless she wants to go to prison instead.”

The Holmes brothers exchanged thin, unpleasant smiles. John shook his head in reluctant regret. Kitty Riley wasn’t his favourite person, for sure, but she only turned into a vengeful bitch after Sherlock had been so inexcusably rude to her. Unfortunately, the world’s only consulting detective was even worse at dealing with the press (admittedly, a highly annoying specimen of humankind) than he was at dealing with people in general.

At which he wasn’t very good to begin with.

“Aren’t the two of you forgetting something?” Mary asked accusingly.

Mycroft and Sherlock gave her identical blank looks.

“The Baron had a partner,” she reminded them. “What will become of her? Or are you willing to let her get away with everything, cause otherwise your mother would be upset? Isn’t it time that you freed yourselves from under her thumb and act like the grown men you’re supposed to be?”

“At this point it cannot be helped, I’m afraid,” Mycroft admitted glumly, ignoring her challenge. “Whatever we do, the outcome _will_ upset Mummy; because it will affect Violet.”

“A good thing she’s got such a low opinion about _me_ already,” Sherlock commented with an unholy gleam in his eyes. “She might disinherit _you_ , though; and what will happen to the Sherringford Estate then, Lord Mycroft?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Don’t be childish, Sherlock. Mummy _can’t_ disinherit me, and you know that. And I won’t be using the title anyway, even when it comes rightfully to me; which, I fervently hope, won’t happen for a long time yet. But whether Mummy will like it or not, I’ll deal with Violet; and I’ll make sure that she won’t be a threat for others any longer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Katie Piper's story is true.


	19. The Trial of Miss Kitty Winter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea of Mummy Holmes as the Viscountess of Sherringford was conceived by fellow Sherlock writer sevenpercent who has the copyright for it.  
> Also, a word of explanation: I’ve nothing against mpreg. I even write the stuff occasionally. However, I think both Mary and John would be fairly alarmed by the idea, hence their comments.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**CHAPTER 18 – THE TRIAL OF MISS KITTY WINTER**

**September 21st 2014**

“What did Mycroft mean with not using the title?” Mary asked, when – several days later – the Watsons had a free moment. “ _What_ title?”

(As if the patients had known that John wasn’t currently occupied with chasing criminals all across London with Sherlock, demands for both doctors had been very high in the previous few days.) 

John shrugged. “Their mother, Lady Violet, is actually the Viscountess of Sherringford,” he explained. “She has got a huge estate and all that; somewhere in Essex, I think. I’ve only ever been to the Holmes Estate, and even that only once, so I’m not really sure. But Mycroft will earn the title after their mother’s death, or so Sherlock tells me.”

“Lord Mycroft,” Mary mused. “That sounds really scary, somehow. Not that he’d actually _need_ to get any scarier.”

“No,” John agreed. “Mycroft manages _scary_ very well on his own.”

“But why wouldn’t he want to wear the title?” Mary wondered.

“I’m not really sure,” John admitted with another shrug. “Sherlock mentioned something about politicians in Europe disliking to deal with aristocrats in their own field; but personally I think that Mycroft is a lot prouder of his own achievements than he’d ever be about his heritage. In that, he and Sherlock are quite alike; they appreciate personal achievement above everything else.”

“I think they’re a lot more alike than either of them would be willing to admit,” Mary said thoughtfully.

John nodded. “That they are; which isn’t really surprising. According to old Wilf, who’s been Mycroft personal valet since he was old enough to learn how to knot a tie properly, Mycroft practically raised Sherlock.”

“But Mycroft is only seven years older than Sherlock,” Mary said. “How can any decent parent saddle someone who’s still barely more than a child with such responsibility?”

“They can’t,” John agreed. “But I don’t think that either of their parents was of much use during their childhood. As I understand, their father was away most of the time, extremely busy with business and politics, and as for Lady Violet – you know what Sherlock said about her not liking her sons cause she always wanted daughters.”

“And she neglected her baby, just cause he had the wrong body parts?” Mary’s eyes narrowed in annoyance. 

John shrugged again. “Apparently, she fell into post-natal depression after Sherlock’s birth and didn’t even acknowledge his existence until he showed a real affinity for the violin. It had been her deepest regret that, while an apt piano player, Mycroft never showed any true artistic talent. So when it turned out that Sherlock had it in spades, Lady Violet was finally willing to admit that she did, in fact, have a younger son.”

Mary shook her head, thoroughly disgusted. “Some people don’t deserve to have children at all! How many women have we met who were desperate for a child, no matter if boy or girl, pretty or ugly, big or tiny, as long as it’s hale and healthy? And she gets two brilliant boys who go out their way to please her and is still not happy! Small wonder they both turned out so emotionally damaged. Children who have to grow up without experiencing love will end up incapable of loving; or, at the very least, incapable of _showing_ it.”

“A fine distinction you’ve made here, Mrs Watson,” John said, grinning. “Was there any point to it?”

Mary looked at him in fond amusement.

“Love, we both know that as emotionally closed up as Sherlock is, he still loves you; in a completely platonic and fairly inept way, which is the only one he knows,” she said. “He may not show it, but he certainly acts it. He even died for you, in a manner of speaking.”

“And let me mourn him for three years,” John muttered; he was no longer angry about it, but the memories still hurt.

“He still did it for you,” Mary pointed out gently. “And for Mrs Hudson and Detective Inspector Lestrade. Somebody incapable of love wouldn’t do that.”

“He says that love is a chemical imbalance,” John said with a tolerant smile.

“Just as his brother keeps repeating that caring is not an advantage,” Mary smiled back at him. “And yet he can’t help caring, either. For Sherlock, for that heartless mother of theirs; even for us, just cause we belong to Sherlock.”

“We do?” John asked with a raised eyebrow.

Mary nodded. “Oh, yes. He needs us. You because you’re his best friend; and me because you’d let him get away with too much.”

She paused, then added with a wicked grin. “Do you think he could deal with the shock of becoming an honorary uncle?”

For a moment (to his eternal shame afterwards) John didn’t get the hint. But when he did, it hit home like a hand grenade. He was completely dumbfounded; perhaps even a little bit shocked.

“But… but that’s impossible!” he stuttered. “We’ve always used protection…”

Mary shrugged. “No protection is infallible; we were just lucky, I guess; unless you’ve got a problem with it.”

“A problem?” John echoed incredulously. “Why would _I have_ a problem with it? _You_ were the one who didn’t want kids before we’d have established our practice more firmly.”

“True enough,” Mary admitted. “But that was before I learned that I was actually pregnant.”

“How old is it?” John was getting really excited. “And how long have you known about it?”

“Seven weeks. I did the test the day we had dinner at _Babur’s_ but didn’t want to tell you during the case,” Mary explained. “Distractions can be dangerous when you’re fighting crime with Sherlock,” she bumped shoulders with John. “And if you’re not happy _now_ I’m gonna shoot you with your own gun!”

“Don’t be ridiculous, of course I’m deliriously happy!” John kissed her. “Let’s hope Sherlock won’t get another case right away, so that we can enjoy our little secret a bit longer.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Unbelievably enough, they got their wish. In the following weeks Sherlock wasn’t even in London. He went to the little cottage in Sussex he’d inherited from one of his grandfathers, to fully recover from his injuries and to do some complicated series of experiments John didn’t even try to understand.

It had something to do with bees, apparently.

Billy went with him to keep an eye on him and to make sure he’d eat. John assumed Mycroft’s hand in that arrangement; although how had Mycroft managed to make Sherlock agree to all this remained a secret.

The tabloids, of course, went wild with excitement over the vitriol attack of Baron Gruner who, after all, had often featured on the front pages in the past. Being a rich playboy, a ruthless businessman, an art collector _and_ a murder suspect did make someone interesting. If the same person became the _victim_ of a violent crime, it made him practically priceless. The speculations about the motivation and the background of the crime – _and_ the person committing it – were getting more fantastic by the day, with the _Daily Mirror_ leading the circus.

Even the more serious papers like _The Times_ and _The Guardian_ brought the news on the front page; and especially the former one seemed to have and unusually reliable source of information, seeing the great amount of details it could offer. Details none of the other papers seemed to be aware of.

“I’m almost sure that Mycroft allowed some of the true facts to be released,” John commented, folding _The Times_ again and placing it on the kitchen table. “They’re surprisingly correct about Miss Winter’s personal background and her connection to the Baron. _The Times_ even connected this case with the murder of the Baron’s latest wife. It can’t be a coincidence; neither could they have come to it on their own.”

Mary nodded; it was indeed unlikely without given the necessary facts, and those facts were guarded by Mycroft closely.

“Any mentioning of Violet Merville yet?” she asked.

John shook his head. “Nope. I guess Mycroft is still trying to keep her name out of the case.”

“You mean trying to get her out of the whole mess unscathed?” Mary asked grimly. John shrugged.

“That’s one possibility, although with Mycroft there are always half a dozen other options, I’m sure about that. It can also be that he wants Miss Merville to think herself safe until he’s gathered the necessary proof about her involvement and _then_ make his move, so that she wouldn’t be able to wriggle her way out of the trap anymore.”

Mary hummed in agreement, and for the next ten minutes they were quietly eating their dinner. Well, cold supper, actually. Mary had entered the tenth week of her pregnancy and suddenly couldn’t eat take-away any longer. Regardless if it was Chinese, Indian or Thai… it all made her sick. Hot spices in general did.

Fortunately, certain dishes on the menu at _Angelo’s_ she could still stomach, but they had been too tired to go out to eat lately. Angelo did deliver take-away orders, but they both agreed that it just wasn’t the same. So, while John treated himself to some fish and chips between two house calls in the afternoon, Mary had lived on cooked meat (mostly chicken) and salads for a couple of weeks by now.

“Just wait until the cravings hit,” she said when John protested about the monotony of her diet. “I just hope I won’t start craving cucumbers, though. That would be terribly clichéd.”

“I’d be grateful if you’d finally start craving _anything_ ,” John muttered. “Other women actually put on weight when they’re pregnant. You’ve been losing it for weeks!”

Mary had always been on the slim side, but she’d become alarmingly thin lately, he found. She, however, only shrugged off his concerns.

“Sarah checks on me every other day, and my blood work came back okay,” she replied “I’m a bit anaemic, but nothing serious. Stop being such a worrywart; every woman reacts differently to being pregnant. It’s not a disease, you know.”

“I know,” John said. “But…”

“But nothing,” she interrupted. “We girls are _built_ for this; which is why all those stupid male pregnancy ideas would never work. Including that silly Schwarzenegger film that was the most idiotic thing I’ve ever seen. You need the right bits for carrying a baby.”

John blinked a few times, not quite sure where _that_ had come from.

“You’ve lost me, love,” he admitted.

“Be glad,” she replied. “And for God’s sake, keep out of the Sherlock fansites on the internet. I swear, if I have to see one more photomanip, showing either him or you pregnant with each other’s babies, I’ll have a nude photo of me put on the front page of every single tabloid when I’m as big as a whale, with the title: THIS IS THE WATSON BABY!”

“Oh, God!” John’s jaw dropped in shock. “Don’t tell me people actually _consider_ such things!”

“That, and worse,” Mary replied. “Apparently, you and Sherlock are a _pairing_ now, with your own _fanbase_.”

John shook his head in utter bewilderment.

“And Donovan calls _Sherlock_ a freak,” he commented wryly. “I hope _he_ hasn’t come across such pictures yet. He’d either make his entire fanbase to mortal enemies by leaving scathing comments on their websites, analysing their stupidity and the biological impossibility of the whole idea – or, what’s even worse, he might begin experimenting.”

Mary laughed at that. “Don’t be ridiculous, love; why would Sherlock want a _baby_?”

“He wouldn’t,” John agreed. “But he might give in to the temptation of trying to show that he _can_ do it – even if nobody else could.”

“Let’s hope then that he’s going to be busy enough with Miss Winter’s trial, once it starts,” Mary sighed. “By the way, won’t the two of you be prosecuted for breaking and entering? After all, the Baron didn’t exactly invite you to visit his garden and inner study while he was chatting about Chinese pottery with _me_.”

“Under normal circumstances we might; although this wasn’t the first time and probably won’t be the last, either,” John admitted. “But when a case is of public interest and a client suitably illustrious, even the British law becomes somewhat… _elastic_.”

“In other words: Mycroft,” Mary concluded, and John nodded.

“Mycroft. And in this case I don’t really mind his meddling. The last thing we’d need right now would be a court case against us.”

“Speaking of Mycroft,” Mary said, resting a hand on her still mostly flat belly, “do you think he knows…?”

“If not, he soon will if you keep doing _that_ ,” John grinned. “Not from Sarah, that much is certain; but he does have his eyes and ears everywhere.”

“Does it mean that Sherlock knows, too?” Mary asked, a bit disappointed.

“Not from Mycroft; he likes to watch how fast Sherlock can figure out things he already knows,” John replied, still grinning.

“Sibling rivalry at its finest,” Mary commented. “Like two overgrown toddlers fighting in the sandbox.”

“Something like that, yeah,” John agreed. “Of course, Mycroft may throw the fact at Sherlock’s head if Sherlock’s particularly annoying. At which he’s very good, as we both know. Especially when it comes to Mycroft. They’ll never grow up, I’m afraid.”

“It’s hard to grow up when you’ve never been allowed to be a child,” Mary said thoughtfully. “Think about it: Sherlock, at least, had Mycroft when growing up. But whom did _Mycroft_ have? No wonder they’re both damaged.”

“True enough,” John replied. “Although being geniuses – not to mention arrogant assholes – would always separate them from the rest of mankind. But enough of this, Mrs Watson. You need to rest; and _I need_ to polish up my knowledge about acid burns to justify my treatment when providing first aid to the Baron for the jury.”

Naturally, he’d been called as a witness in Kitty Winter’s case… and wasn’t looking forward to it. Neither was Mary, to tell the truth.

“I wish we could stay out of the whole thing,” she muttered glumly. “You’ve already had enough media circus for several lifetimes; and I hate to expose our baby to that kind of stress, even before it’s born.”

John sighed. “I know, love. But since we were both present at the attack I’m afraid there’s no way around it.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
To their pleasant surprise, though, the Lord Justice ordered a private hearing; meaning that no spectators and no press were being allowed. Only the jury, the experts, the witnesses and the security forces were present. John suspected Mycroft’s hand in the arrangement again, but was told that the orders came from even higher.

_If a client is illustrious enough…_

Which didn’t mean that the media wouldn’t go mad, of course. Especially when they got wind of Sherlock’s involvement. Once again, reporters were camping outside 221B, outside John and Mary’s clinic in Queen Anne Street, not to mention the court building.

Some even tried to use the consulting hours, disguising themselves as new patients, to get any information out of the doctors. To divert them, Mary sent John to answer the house calls, choosing to deal with these fake patients herself. She found great, evil delight in sending them to all kinds of _very_ unpleasant examinations, based on the symptoms they had faked to have.

Within a few days, the fake patients stopped coming.

The daily press releases – controlled by Mycroft’s people, no doubt – revealed nothing about Mary’s involvement in the case, for which she was grateful. It was bad enough that the press latched onto Sherlock and John, as usual. She didn’t want that kind of attention for herself; or for her child.

The other advantage of a private hearing was that they didn’t have to obfuscate. They could openly admit the plan of taking the Baron down and to the methods they had used. The jury was understandably a little shocked to learn that the Chinese ambassador had personally provided the means to make it work – through which fact that part of the case automatically became a diplomatic affair and therefore outside their jurisdiction. 

They could even use carefully selected parts of the Baron’s infamous diary to make Miss Winter’s motivation more understandable.

Though summoned as a witness, Baron Gruner didn’t make an appearance. Due to the attest of his doctor – or rather the physician of the prison in which he was being held in solitary confinement – he got excused. He did send in his testimony nonetheless; taken in his prison cell and verified by his lawyer _and_ an independent notary. A testimony that was in every point disproved by the witnesses… or by the very facts meticulously recorded and verified by photos and cheques in his own diary.

Collecting trophies did not turn out such a good idea after all.

Miss Winter, for her part, played the role of a distraught woman driven to despair by her victim very convincingly. The witnesses from the drug milieu – ahead of all her old pal, Shinwell Johnson – presented ample proof of her current situation. Her addiction to hard drugs and alcohol was attested by independent experts and by drug tests. Bills recovered from the Baron’s safe showed how her entire inheritance had been put into the reconstruction work of Vernon Lodge. 

She also gave testimony about several other women used by the Baron in similar ways; some were even murdered in the end.

As her testimony was affirmed by minute details in the Baron’s diary, her cooperation got favourably noted at the consideration of her own sentence. It didn’t came as a surprise that she got off with the lowest possible sentence for such a serious crime, due to, as Mycroft had put it, the extenuating circumstances.

It still meant that she’d have to go to prison for years, of course. But it would give her the chance to sober up and finally get a grip on her life. Perhaps when the Baron’s own trial was over, she might even get some of her money back.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
“In my estimate, half what Vernon Lodge is currently worth would by right belong to her, as it was her money put into the reconstruction,” Mycroft explained a week after the trial.

He’d taken the liberty to invite everyone involved in the case to dinner in his townhouse on Pall Mall. That included Lestrade and Sally Donovan as well as Ms Acquah from the _National Antiquities Museum_ and even Sarah and Molly, who’d helped Mary with her transformation as Gruner’s potential trade partner… much to Sherlock’s dismay.

At first the presence of the distinguished Chinese gentleman (not to mention that of his blank-faced bodyguards who were standing in the shadows like statues) unnerved Sarah a little. Memories of the Chinese gangsters who had nearly killed her on her second date with John resurfaced for a moment. But the Chinese ambassador treated them all most amiably, so they warmed to him after a while.

He even gifted a beautiful ancient broche upon Sarah as a sign of his government’s gratitude for her help with stopping the smuggling ring specialised in selling off the cultural heritage of his country. So Sarah mollified very quickly.

“But what good does it her, owning half of Vernon Lodge?” Molly asked. “It’s dead money, isn’t it?”

“Not entirely,” Mycroft explained. “It appears that the Baron’s entire wealth is going to be confiscated…”

“Which means the government gets it,” Sherlock added helpfully, for all potential idiots present. Mycroft nodded.

“Indeed. And since Vernon Lodge has not only been reconstructed to its original form, which makes it part of the National Heritage Trust, but also contains the Baron’s unique collection of Chinese pottery, it’s being considered to turn it into a branch of the _National Antiquities Museum_ , for the storage, display and mending of such items, exclusively. That means that Miss Winter can be compensated for at least part of her expenses, the mansion would be put to public use and the collection would be accessible to anyone with an interest… under controlled circumstances, of course.”

“My government is willing to support the project by setting a team of the _Institute of Chinese Culture_ in the house,” the Chinese ambassador added. “That would enable our historians to work with the pieces and students to study them, while improving the cooperation with the _National Antiquities Museum_. It is an elegant solution; and a most advantageous one, for both parties involved.”

It also had Mycroft’s handwriting all over it; but this time not even Sherlock could find any fault with it.

Soon after dessert the Chinese ambassador excused himself and left, with his stone-faced bodyguards in tow. Ms Acquah was invited to accompany him to make further arrangements between the _National Antiquities Museum_ and the _Institute of Chinese Culture_ – it promised to be a fruitful venture. The atmosphere in Mycroft’s elegant dining room relaxed immensely, and the conversation turned to more personal topics.

Namely to the Watsons’ baby, whose existence was a know fact by know; whose gender, however, remained a secret to everyone but Sarah; even to the expecting parents. As long as their baby was healthy (which it apparently was), John and Mary wanted to be surprised and, respecting their wishes, Sarah was silent like a grave.

Mycroft could have found out if he really wanted, of course. The clinic kept electronic records and no such things were ever safe from him – or his minions. After a moment of intense curiosity, however, he decided to restrain himself. His relationship with John was still precarious – the doctor had found it harder to forgive _him_ for having played along Sherlock’s scheme than to Sherlock himself – and he didn’t want to ruin it any more.

Besides, there was very little in his area of work to which he could be looking forward in expectation. Being surprised in a non-lethal way was a rarity, so why should he spoil it?

Sherlock, less tolerant towards not knowing things, disagreed, of course. Repeatedly and _very_ vocally. He explained to the expecting parents – again, repeatedly and _very_ vocally – that it was a stupid, sentimental thing to do, when there was a way to make certain what to expect. Not to mention impractical, since they couldn’t decide about the name and purchase the right kind of clothes in time.

“Oh, choosing names isn’t so complicated, really,” Mary replied tolerantly. “We choose both girls’ and boys’ names in advance – assuming we can ever come to an agreement,” she added with a sideways glance at her husband, “and when the baby is born, apply that which will match.”

“It’s still a waste of energy!” Sherlock insisted.

“No, Sherlock,” John replied in fond exasperation. “It’s _fun_.”

“Your ideas about _fun_ are rather pedestrian,” Sherlock declared haughtily.

John shrugged but there was a steely glint in his eyes, getting fed up with Sherlock’s antics. He had the patient of a saint, but he also had his limits, and when it came to his unborn child, he was willing to draw the line sooner than usually.

“Perhaps so. Perhaps expecting a baby can’t be compared with the excitement of thumbs in the fridge or eyeballs in the microwave or the growth rate of mould on rotten foodstuffs. But this is _our_ pedestrian baby, so kindly leave us our very pedestrian fun of not knowing whether it will be a boy or a girl… and the thrill of expectation. We can’t all be mad geniuses, you know. _Some_ of us have to remain dull, for you to shine the more brightly.”

“Besides,” Sarah added practically while Sherlock was staring at John in something akin shock, “not knowing the gender of the baby is better for the baby shower.”

Sherlock gave her a blank look, clearly never having heard that particular expression before. Or having deleted it.

“What does the gender of a baby have to do with their sanitary requirement?” he asked in confusion.

The general laughter alerted him to the likely fact that he’d missed an important clue.

“What?” he scowled. “I don’t litter my mind with unnecessary trivia.”

“Like _any_ knowledge about the solar system,” Donovan commented smugly.

“A _baby shower_ means a party where family and friends bring gifts for the unborn baby,” Mary hurriedly intervened before Donovan and Sherlock could have started a hissing fit of mutual insults. “They are a fairly recent innovation in England, but have been popular in the States for years. Sarah meant that when we don’t know the baby’s gender, there’s no danger of people buying exclusively pink or sky blue things – both colours that I utterly despise, if I may mention it. So, hopefully, the baby shower will result in gender-neutral gifts, which we both prefer by the way.”

“And that, ladies of gentlemen, was a broad hint if you’ve ever heard one,” John finished, grinning like a loon.

Everyone laughed, with the exception of Molly who seemed rather disappointed. Knowing her love for fluffy pink things of the worst sort, John felt relieved that they’d cleared this particular question well in advance. No child of his would _ever_ be caught wearing fluffy pink things! Or fluffy sky blue ones for that matter. 

Fortunately, this was one thing in which Mary absolutely agreed with him. Unlike the possible names.

“So, am I right to assume that you haven’t decided about the possible names yet?” Mycroft asked, as if he’d read John’s thoughts.

Perhaps he had. The man was creepy that way.

“We’ve made a selection and narrowed it down considerably,” Mary explained. “It’s not finalised yet, though. If it’s a girl, I’d like to call it Grace, but John insists on Amy.”

“And if it’s a boy, I’m all for Hamish, but Mary wants to name it Joe,” John added.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “For God’s sake, John, listen to your wife and give the kid a normal, everyday name! Can you imagine what he’d got through at school with a name like Hamish? Even I was mobbed for my stupid name at Harrow, although the other boys had less common names than your kid’s future schoolmates will likely have.”

“The Fre… the man has a point,” Donovan admitted reluctantly.

“It’s a bit early to worry about school bullies, isn’t it?” Lestrade said. “Let the poor kid be born first. And until that happens, we still have a lot of work to do. Picking apart the Baron’s net of minions, for starters; not to mention rolling up his entire past.”

“That,” Mycroft said after a short pause, “is something I may be of some assistance with.”


	20. Revisions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. Work has been unreasonable lately.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**CHAPTER 19 – REVISIONS**

**October 19th 2014**

About a month after the trial of Miss Kitty Winter, a short article appeared in _The Times_ , reporting that the infamous Baron Adelbert Gruner had committed suicide in his private room in the hospital prison – by disconnecting his IV-line for about twenty minutes, using it to pump air into his veins. He died of a lung embolism shortly thereafter.

An internal investigation was started to find out how and why the Baron had been left alone long enough to do away with himself in such a quick and efficient way. The security guard in front of his hospital room swore that he hadn’t left him alone for a moment. CCTV footage showed, however, that he’d fallen asleep on his chair for about an hour. 

His blood test came up with traces of a strong sedative, which he’d obviously digested with his coffee two hours previously. The coffee he’d drawn from the automatic coffee dispenser in the foyer, used by all hospital personnel. Nobody else was affected, and he didn’t remember having left his paper coffee cup unobserved.

Which didn’t mean that the voluptuous, carrot-haired nurse who – according to the CCTV – had passed him on the floor two hours earlier couldn’t have slipped him something. It would only have required a little sleigh-of-hand, even though he’d been holding the cup at the time.

John laughed himself silly when he recognised Anthea in the unlikely disguise. Really, it was only the BlackBerry that gave her away. He assumed that the “unlucky” security guard was a plant of Mycroft’s, too. That sedative would have knocked out an elephant. Only someone with proper training and high resistance would have recovered in less than an hour.

Mycroft’s only comment was an enigmatic half-smile.

The article also mentioned that Miss Violet Merville, the rich and successful young businesswoman, only daughter of General Merville, etc., had suffered a complete breakdown when confronted with the hideous crimes of her fiancé, Baron Gruner. She had been declared mentally incapable and placed under surveillance in one of the best and most discreet private psychiatric hospitals. The article didn’t name the hospital, out of consideration for Miss Merville’s delicate condition.

Control over her considerable business as well as the Merville Estate went to a guardian, appointed by General Merville himself, whose weakening health didn’t allow him to deal with financial things himself.

It didn’t come as a surprise that said guardian was no-one else than Sir James. Which really meant that an accountant suggested by Mycroft – who also happened to take care of Sir James’s own finances – would be responsible for the Merville wealth until the General’s death. 

What would happen after that depended on the heir apparent, a distant male cousin of Miss Merville’s. In more than one way, the Gruner/Merville case seemed to be closed.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“It sounds very convincing, of course,” John said doubtfully. “But as one who actually knows some of the hidden facts, I’m not really buying the breakdown thing. So what’s _really_ happened?”

They were sitting at 221B, with a now visibly pregnant Mary commandeering the sofa to put up her feet and the two men lounging in their respective armchairs.

“Knowing Mycroft, Violet is probably shut away in some secret government prison where the guards shoot first and never bother to ask any questions later,” Sherlock replied, pulling a face. “A shame, really. Not that I’d miss her, we always despised each other, but she’d have deserved to inherit the Merville estate. Much more than that insipid third cousin of hers whose only advantage is to be born as a boy. Unless he allows Mr Stephens to care for the estate, he’ll run it down in no time. At least Violet was capable and ruthless. Having that idiot take all the money she earned thanks her own business sense is disgraceful.”

“Perhaps you should talk to your brother about British hereditary law,” Mary suggested.

Sherlock shrugged, rapidly losing interest in the topic. “There’s no general regulation. Each old family can do as they please. The Sherringfords were more open-minded; Mummy could inherit both the estate and the title, but she can’t leave it to anyone not related by blood – or else Violet would get it, I’m quite sure of that.”

“Are you sure that putting her away in a psychiatric hospital slash high security prison isn’t simply an act of vengeance from Mycroft’s side?” John asked. “That he’s not paying back for all the attention she got from your mother while she neglected both of you?”

“Everything is possible when it comes to Mycroft,” Sherlock replied dryly. “Although in this case spiriting Violet away to some secret place without a trial might be the lesser evil. Mummy would never forgive him for a public scandal; which would be inevitable, had Violet’s name been even mentioned in connection with Baron Gruner’s.”

Mary pulled a face. She hadn’t had the dubious honour of meeting Lady Holmes yet, but she found she disliked her more and more every time the woman got mentioned.

“So, instead of serving a temporary sentence according to her crime like everybody else, she’ll spend her life in solitary confinement, with no hope to come free, _ever_ – probably even drugged up to her ears, just to spare your mother’s feelings? How is that even remotely fair?”

“It isn’t,” Sherlock shrugged. “Life rarely is.”

“And that’s it?” Mary demanded angrily.

Sherlock rolled his eyes in exasperation. John with his noble ideas about fairness could be bad enough at times. He really didn’t need John’s _wife_ teaming up with her husband against him.

“What do you expect from me?” he asked. “This was Mycroft’s case, from the beginning. He won’t listen to me any more than I’d listen to him.”

“Too bad,” Mary replied coolly. “Then he’ll have to listen to _me_.”

Sherlock snorted. “As if! Mycroft never listens to _anyone_ , save perhaps Mummy; what makes you think he’d listen to you, of all people?”

“Cause there’s nothing so frightening as a pregnant woman under the influence of her hormones,” John said simply. “And because he owes her for risking her safety to take the Baron down. I was always told that Mycroft Holmes was a man who pays his debts. Well; now he can prove it.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Sherlock – understandably – was more than a little doubtful about the whole undertaking… but John proved to be correct. Only two days after their discussion at 221B Mary simply marched into Mycroft’s Whitehall office. She practically steamrolled Anthea who – again, understandably – was hesitant to take any serious action against a visibly pregnant woman.

A pregnant woman that was as close to a friend as Mycroft Holmes could ever get to one.

However, when she brought in the obligatory herbal tea and biscuits ten minutes later, the scene she found wasn’t exactly friendly. Her tall, aloof, imposing boss and the small-boned, willowy little pregnant doctor were glaring daggers at each other, and by the general temperature of the inner office polar bears would have died from the cold.

She fled the scene as soon as she’d delivered the refreshments. Unlike her boss, Anthea – or rather Allison nowadays – knew that you didn’t mess with a pregnant woman in righteous anger. Especially with _this_ pregnant woman, before whom even Sherlock backed off repeatedly.

Mr Holmes had already made the mistake of underestimating _Doctor_ Watson. Allison hoped he wouldn’t make the mistake of underestimating _Mrs_ Watson. Because Dr Morstan was less likely to forgive him for Sherlock’s sake. And if John Watson were to face the choice between his wife and his best friend, the outcome wouldn’t be easily estimated.

Not any longer. Not with the baby on its way.

Which could lead to a disaster of cosmic magnitude. Because Sherlock could no longer function without Doctor Watson. Not in the long run. And if something happened to Sherlock, then Mr Holmes would break beyond help, too. So Allison _really_ hoped that her boss would be reasonable enough _not_ to alienate the feisty little doctor too much.

In his pretentious office, Mycroft Holmes was contemplating the same problem carefully. The main problem was that he stood in Mary’s debt, more than anyone (save perhaps Sherlock) could imagine. 

Oh no, not for the brave yet ultimately insignificant little action with Baron Gruner. He’d have solved that problem eventually; although perhaps not so quickly and neatly. No; what he owed her for was the fact that she’d saved John from falling into despair during Sherlock’s… absence.

The good doctor would hardly have lasted so long without a new purpose in life. The support and love – the pointy end of Mycroft’s nose twitched in discomfort from even _thinking_ about the L-word – had saved John’s sanity. Had saved him for Sherlock.

Mycroft was well aware of the fact that – as much as Sherlock hated it and would never admit, not if he lived a hundred years or more – his baby brother was utterly dependant on a selected few people. Well; on _three_ people exactly.

He was one of them. Perhaps the most vital one, as he’d been a steady support for Sherlock since the day the fragile, fussy baby with the strange eyes had first been put into his arms. Sherlock might have refused his help, calling it meddling, might have denied to ever accepting it, but the simple truth was, he _needed_ Mycroft to pick up the pieces after him… or to smooth the way in front of him. Whichever was necessary.

Mrs Hudson was another such person, giving Sherlock freely all the affection and simple care Mummy had always denied both her sons, doting on Violet instead. She gave Sherlock the home he’d never known before.

And somehow, with his open admiration and unshakable loyalty, John Watson had become the third player in the often difficult game of keeping Sherlock safe and sane. A vital player, the loss of whom could have unpredictable consequences. Because John Watson gave Sherlock the things Sherlock secretly craved yet Mycroft couldn’t give him: affection, unconditional acceptance, easy camaraderie and the moral and emotional compass that Sherlock badly needed.

So far John’s wife had not only tolerated their near-symbiotic relationship but had been openly supportive of it. She understood that, in a certain way, John needed Sherlock as much as Sherlock needed him. Neither of them was complete without the other one.

But Mary Morstan was a woman of strong moral principles, too, and should she come to the conclusion that dealing with the Holmes brothers – either of them – was harmful for her husband, she might give John an ultimatum.

And, just like Anthea – pardon, Allison – before, Mycroft couldn’t predict for sure what John’s answer would be. Neither was that a risk he’d be willing to take. So he’d have to give in to Mary’s demands, as far as it was possible in the current situation.

“What would you want me to do, Dr Morstan?” he asked, making no attempt to hide his exasperation.

This was her game, but he saw no reason to make it easy for her.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

The days in the so-called psychiatric hospital were mind-numbingly similar, she found… which wasn’t really surprising, considering that in truth it was a secret government prison where the inmates have no chance of ever leaving.

They woke her at the same time every day. The lights went on, and there was no way to turn them off again.

They fed her very much the same things each week – which she ate, mostly because it gave her something to _do_ at the very least.

They took her to the garden for a walk every afternoon, at the same time, regardless of the weather… and under heavy guard, of course. They made her walk the same paths day after day, and the garden never looked any different. 

Sometimes she was tempted to jump into the beets to make sure the plants were actually alive, not just plastic facsimiles, but decided against it each time. Losing her composure would mean another small victory for them, and she wasn’t willing to give them that; not yet. Not as long as she could help it.

They switched off the lights at the same time every night, with no chance to turn them on again.

She was offered a small selection of books each week, with no recognisable pattern in the selection choices. She accepted them anyway, just to keep her brain from rotting. There was even a TV-set in her cell, with a narrow selection of channels to watch, which she did, for the same reason as for accepting the books.

At least they were _intelligent programmes_ : National Geographic, BBC documentaries and the likes. The usual crap telly – soaps and commercials – would have driven her mad. And clearly, they didn’t _want_ her to go mad. They – or rather Mycroft – obviously wanted her to experience her punishment fully.

Which was probably the reason why they didn’t sedate her, either, although she almost wanted they would. Trying to fight the attempts would have been a challenge; fun even. She wasn’t supposed to _have_ fun. She was supposed to suffer. 

They even allowed her a news channel, so that she’d be fully aware of what was going on in the outside world. What she was missing. What she’d be missing for the rest of her life.

She never saw a soul – not even the other inmates – save for the personnel. All harmless-looking men with almost interchangeable faces. They wore the usual hospital scrubs and looked, for all means and purposes, like nurses and med techs, but she didn’t doubt that every single one of them knew at least twenty-six ways to kill a man with a salt shaker.

They never talked to her beyond the standard instructions, and even those were few and always the same. When _she_ tried to talk to them, they didn’t answer; pretended they hadn’t even heard her. She was obviously _not_ to be entertained.

She’d already lost count of how long she’d been here. Even with the news channel displaying the current date, the thought of vegetating away like this, forever, was too depressing to count back time. It was easier to mark the days of the week by the daily menus. It broke a little the grey monotony. Enough to keep the inmates from going mad; but not by much.

And she was still fairly young. A lifetime of dull, mind-numbing monotony stretched out before her into infinity. A bleak existence in utter greyness.

This place was clearly designed to break people like her, and it was doing a good job of it already.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
She had become so used to the never-changing pattern of the place that she was almost shocked when – instead of the solitary walk in the garden – she was led to a room she’d never seen before. A room divided in the middle by bullet-proof glass, signalling that it was meant for the inmates to actually _meet_ people, unlikely though it seemed.

And apparently, she had a visitor. She was even allowed to meet that visitor. Who would have thought _that_?

Her excitement deflated in no time when she saw _who_ the visitor was, though.

Strangely enough, Mycroft Holmes didn’t seem out of his element, sitting in the single armchair in the visitors’ half of the bleak little room, on the other side of the glass wand. He was as sharply clad as ever and even had his ever-present umbrella hooked over the back of his seat.

He was also eyeing her with the detached interest of a scientist looking at some moderately interesting bacteria under the microscope. She wished she could hit him.

“Cousin Mycroft,” she greeted him with cold indifference. “To what do I owe the questionable pleasure of your visit?”

Mycroft ignored the hostility in her voice. He’d never been one easily insulted. It probably came with his job.

“It occurred to me that it’s time to have a discussion about your future, my dear,” he replied with poisonous sweetness.

She raised a sarcastic eyebrow. “Since when do I have one?”

“That, cousin dear, depends solely on you,” Mycroft answered. “I can and will make you an offer; a rather reasonable one, if I may say so myself. But if you accept it or not is up to you.”

She gave him a deeply suspicious glare – which, considering the circumstances, was only justified. Because honestly, who else would have the power and the influence to make her vanish in a place like this?

Who else would _know_ of the existence of such a place to begin with?

“Why would you give _me_ a chance?” she asked, disbelief clearly apparent in her voice. “You had Adelbert killed, hadn’t you?”

They had shown her the reports about her fiancé’s _suicide_ ; presumably to show her that she was alone. She never believed it for a moment, of course.

Mycroft nodded without the slightest hint of remorse. “It was necessary, I’m afraid. He might have been able to manipulate the jury into letting him go; I’m sure you understand that I couldn’t allow that. We couldn’t afford another Moriarty to rise. Dealing with the actual one was quite the eye-opener, if you forgive me the primitive expression. I learn my lessons well, as you know.”

“So you’ve decided to get rid of any possible candidates while it could be done with a minimum of effort and casualties,” she said, and Mycroft nodded again.

“Quite so, my dear. I know you’d understand.”

Oh, she did understand all right. She’d known him long enough. Moriarty nearly cost him his brother, and if there was anything for which Mycroft Holmes would literally go down a path framed with dead bodies, it was to protect his baby brother. 

_Nothing_ that threatened Sherlock in _any_ way was allowed to survive.

And though on the surface it didn’t look like it at all, the same was true the other way round. 

She could still remember the early times when Mycroft’s security detail hadn’t been quite as tight as nowadays and he’d been attacked on the short way between his office and his car. Sherlock, although a cocaine addict living on the street at that time, and not on speaking terms with his brother, had hunted down the assassin with the help of his homeless network and delivered the man on the doorstep of _Thames House_ – beaten up almost beyond recognition.

It was all the more surprising that Mycroft would offer her a deal _now_. Se was of no use for him, not anymore. Adelbert was dead. There was no need for a witness against him, even if she’d be willing to give testimony. 

Which she would have done in a heartbeat. Adelbert had been a useful partner, but one of questionable loyalties. She’d have married him for the sake of her inheritance, but she’d never trusted him and frankly, didn’t mourn his loss very much.

And Adelbert had made the mistake of hiring those stupid thugs to beat Sherlock up – a fatal mistake as she’d told him at once. Cheating stupid, bored rich women out of their undeserved money was one thing. The flourishing blackmail business had even been fun. It demanded finesse and a certain amount of recklessness, and she had both of those things in spades.

She had known, of course – or at least, suspected – that Adelbert had some of the women, those who’d become uncomfortable or even dangerous, dealt with in a permanent manner. That had made her a little uncomfortable. Not because she’d feel sorry for them – the stupid tarts had deserved what they got… or, at the very least, hadn’t been completely innocent in their own demise. Besides, _she_ couldn’t be linked to those unfortunate events.

Making an enemy of Mycroft Holmes, on the other hand, was a grave mistake. She had warned Adelbert but, arrogant arse as he’d been, he hadn’t listened. He’d been confident that he could hold his own against Sherlock – which he _might_ have. Not against _Mycroft_ , though. Sherlock was a genius, but an unbalanced one with little to no real understanding of the human nature, and as such he frequently made mistakes in that area. He lived in a world of his own.

 _Mycroft_ , however… Mycroft was ice cold, brilliant, immensely powerful and absolutely ruthless. No-one in their right mind made an enemy of _Mycroft_ Holmes – which, more than anything else, proved that Jim Moriarty had been completely insane. There _was_ no way to win against Mycroft; unless Sherlock colossally messed up something.

Like in that case with Irene Adler. Oh, she knew about it. Poor, naïve Sir James, so clever with diplomats but helpless like a kitten with a young woman he wanted to protect from the big, bad world.

And that made it even less understandable why Mycroft would offer her a deal. She was already beaten, after all.

“All right, let’s stop playing,” she said, irritated. “What do you want from me?”

Mycroft gave her his best ironic eyebrow. The bastard clearly enjoyed the game too much.

“What makes you think I’d want anything from you?” he asked back. “I don’t _want_ anything from you, my dear. I don’t _need_ anything from you. But Sherlock has brought it to my attention that letting that moronic cousin of yours get your business and all the tax money it could bring for the country would be a crying shame; not to mention a definite loss for the economy.”

That was, of course, very true. Ferdinand _was_ an idiot who’d ruin her business _and_ the Merville estate in record time. That thought hurt her much more than Adelbert’s death… which was merely an inconvenience. She’d only been willing to marry him to secure the estate for herself, after all.

“That’s one of the rare things about which we’re in complete agreement,” she said. “Although I’m surprised that it would bother Sherlock, of all people. He hates me even more than you do. He’d always been desperately jealous of me.”

“I don’t hate you, cousin dear,” Mycroft gave her one of those sour little smiles of his that always made her think of a toothache. “Not any more than you hate me.”

She shrugged. “I don’t hate you. Would I hate you, I’d marry you, if only because it would annoy your mother very much. And you’d make a lousy husband anyway. I do despise you, though. I assume the feeling is mutual.”

“Very much so,” Mycroft replied with uncharacteristic openness. “And so does Sherlock, to be honest. But he also hates waste; and so do I. Which is why I am here.”

She still didn’t quite believe him. It simply wasn’t his way to let a defeated adversary go. But she could as well listen to him. No-one said that she’d have to actually accept his offer, whatever it might be.

“All right,” she said. “What’s your game?”

“I’m not offering you a free card out of here,” he began slowly, precisely; this was his negotiating voice, she assumed. “You’ll remain here for years to come yet – but not forever. I’ll consult our jurists to calculate how long a sentence a regular jury would likely give you, assuming you had a really good lawyer; which you’d doubtfully be able to afford.”

“And whatever they come up with, that’s how long I’m going to stay here?” she clarified.

Mycroft nodded. “Precisely. It won’t be an easy time, I warn you. This place has been designed to be as unpleasant as possible while still providing the inmates with the basic human needs. Some go insane from the monotony. But I think you’re stronger than that. If you can hold on to your sanity, you’ll eventually be declared fully healed and released. This is supposed to be a psychiatric hospital, you see.”

A hospital, if only by name. That still meant she wouldn’t have a criminal record and could – in theory – take back her wealth and her business after her release. _If_ there still would be anything left by that time. She knew that Sir James had been assigned to the task to take care of her finances, but what could the old fool really do?

“I’ve suggested Sir James an accountant who’d take good care of your business, and he accepted,” Mycroft continued. “Your cousin won’t be allowed any access to it; or to your funds. I’ll leave orders that Mr Stephens should visit you in regular intervals. You’ll be allowed to have a word in the important business decisions. You’ll be allowed to keep your money, as far as it hasn’t come from any shared illegal activities with Gruner. And when you’ve served your sentence, you’ll be able to take back your business.”

She shook her head involuntarily. It sounded too good to be true. And it had come too suddenly.

“Come on,” she said. “You’re not doing this out of the goodness of your heart. You don’t _have_ a heart, unless it comes to Sherlock. So _why_ are you doing this?”

Mycroft hesitated for a moment; then he grinned ruefully.

“Because, as Doctor Watson so eloquently put it, you don’t have a rat’s chance against a pregnant woman under the influence of her hormones,” he replied.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“And did she accept your offer?” General Merville asked eagerly.

His condition had deteriorated severely and rapidly during the last two months. While not yet restricted to bed, he already needed a wheelchair to move around within his own house (not to mention a nurse who would push said wheelchair) and an oxygen mask to aid him with his breathing.

It was a sad thing, seeing the once so proud and capable soldier so broken – and not by his terminal illness alone. The fate of his only daughter probably hurt him much than the cancer ever could, and Mycroft felt an unexpected rush of anger towards Violet. Treating a doting father like Merville this way…

“As I hoped she would,” he replied, forcing himself to neutral calmness. “She’s a highly intelligent woman, and the chance to keep her business safe from Ferdinand’s idiocy was one she couldn’t resist.”

The general sighed. “I wish I could keep the estate safe from him, too. The thought of all those unwashed, wannabe artists high on drugs and alcohol invading my home of old, ruining everything that long generations of Mervilles kept safe and in top condition, makes me shudder. Is there nothing you can do about it?”

Mycroft shook his head in regret because he honestly agreed with the general about Ferdinand Merville and his parasitic friends. The thought of them selling the old paintings to finance their drug habit, of ruining the precious old carpets and china and furniture made him almost sick. As he’d told Violet, he hated waste.

Unfortunately, his hands were bound in this particular case.

“I’m sorry, General,” he said. “Being stupid and useless isn’t against the law in this country; although I agree with you, it should be. And I’m afraid I cannot justify having him killed with the usual excuse of national security either, as much as it would please me.”

He’d only met Ferdinand Merville a few times, but that had been enough to come to hate the man with a passion. Well, with as much passion as he could manage to bring up anyway.

“Makes you long for the good old times when one could challenge such people to a duel of life and death,” General Merville laughed; that led to a coughing attack, which left him exhausted for several minutes.

“There might be one way to save as much as can be saved,” Mycroft began carefully. “It depends on the exact wording of the inheritance rules of your family, but if it’s only said that the _estate_ has to go to Ferdinand, you can make precautions by having everything that can be moved sent into storage, safely packed away for the time…”

“For the time when my little girl will be released from whatever you have organised for her to be held instead of prison,” the old man finished for him. “I want to thank you, Mycroft. I’ll die more easily, knowing that – even if I won’t see her ever again – she’ll be free eventually, and won’t stand there penniless, left to Ferdinand’s nonexistent mercies.”

“You _can_ see her, if that’s what you want,” Mycroft offered. “Visitors aren’t allowed there as a rule, but I do have a certain… influence. I can organise a car that will take you there, and I can leave orders that you’d be allowed to see her… if you really _want_ her to see you in your present condition.”

“I’d like to spare her the sight,” the general sighed. “But this may be my only chance to see her at all. I won’t last until she’s released; and in a month’s time I won’t have the strength to make the trip to her… _if_ I’m still alive. So yes, please arrange it,”

Mycroft nodded. He’d been shown the general’s hospital file and knew that Merville had two months left to live – and _that_ was an optimistic estimate. As much as he personally disliked Violet, _General_ Merville had always been a good friend of his father’s. And while Mycroft didn’t have all that many good memories of his own father, in the rare occasions that he’d met Merville in the past, the general had always been friendly and courteous to both him _and_ to Sherlock – the latter had seldom been the case with Father’s… acquaintances. The old man deserved to see his daughter one last time; even though Violet had never appreciated him for the doting father that he was.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Mycroft rose and took his leave from General Merville, knowing how unlikely it was that he’d see he him alive again. That was… unfortunate, but he wasn’t particularly crushed. He’d barely known the man, after all. The general had been Father’s friend, not his own.

Because Mycroft Holmes didn’t _have_ friends. He was the shadow lord of the British Government and the caretaker of one Sherlock Holmes – both full-time jobs on their own that didn’t leave him time for a private life. Not that he’d ever wanted to have one.

He left the hospital and walked to the waiting car, twirling his umbrella thoughtfully as he went. Anthea – pardon, Allison – was already expecting him, busily texting away on her BlackBerry. He climbed into the back seat next to her.

“Any calls in my absence?” he asked.

“Just the usual traffic,” she replied, without looking up from her phone. “All dealt with; nothing urgent. Oh, and a private message from Doctor Morstan.”

She held out the phone to him and he leaned closer, his curiosity piqued. What would John’s temperamental little wife want from him _now_?

There was no actual text. The message was titled HAPPY BIRTHDAY, UNCLE MYCROFT! and it contained the ultrasound image of an unborn baby, curled up in its mother’s womb, sucking on its tiny thumb.

The gender of the baby couldn’t be determined from this angle, of course. Still it was a kind gesture from Mary; a sign of appreciation.

Perhaps he _did_ have friends, after all. Even if only through his baby brother.


	21. Epilogue - Log Entry of Dr John H Watson

**EPILOGUE – LOG ENTRY OF DR. JOHN H. WATSON**

**April 28th 2014**

Well… this was the truth about Baron Gruner and the vitriol attack against him, not to mention his failed marriage to Miss Violet Merville. As you can see, it was a fairly complicated case, and we never actually learned who Sherlock’s illustrious client truly was. But he did listen to Mycroft’s suggestion and Mary and I got half the money and would have been able to pay off the mortgage in record time if… well, you know why we didn’t, don't you?

I’m glad that I found the strength to get through my case notes again. Reliving the happy times with Mary was bittersweet – but in the end the sweetness of it outweighed the bitterness. It made me realise what I had in her, even though her loss nearly killed me at that time.

As you probably also know, I gave up the practice – _and_ the flat – in Queen Anne Street after her death. I’m back with Sherlock at 221B again, and I’ve joined Sarah’s clinic as a full partner. We’re still good friends – but nothing more, so please, spare us any stupid comments, will you?

**18 Comments**

So, that’s why Mary needed my Auntie’s clothes for! I wish I could have seen her, facing down the Baron in his own house. She was so brave!

Molly Hooper, 29 April 11:46

*  
Well, I’m glad that you finally told us the whole story. It must have been really exciting.

Mike Stamford, 29 April 12:45

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It was. We both enjoyed it greatly. Mary had lots of fun fooling the Baron. She was amazing.

John Watson, 29 April 13:10

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Hey, Captain, thanks for the story! Should we get together for a pint again? It’s been too long.

Bill Murray, 30 April 10:16

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Sure, why not? I’ll give you a call sometime next week. Unless Sherlock gets a case again.

John Watson, 30 April 13:10

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That was spiffy cool, mate! The best case you’ve ever told us about.

Chris Melas, 2 May, 8:06

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Better than a crime novel!

Harry Watson, 2 Mai 13:12

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And will you just answer your phone!!! I want to know how you’re doing!

Harry Watson, 2 Mai 22:01

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Fine, I’m fine. I’m just sad, as always when I think about what could have been, you know.

John Watson, 8 May, 22:12

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Awesome story! Sherlock was brilliant, as always!

Jacob Sowersby, 10 May, 9:27

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Actually, Dr Morstan was the awesome one in this case. She took the actual risks. All the Freak did was breaking into the Baron’s house – and even got away with it unscathed.

Sally Donovan, 10 May, 22:37

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Still bitter, Sally? One would think you’d be over it by now. Grow up, will you?

John Watson, 10 May, 22:51

Freaks. Both of you.

Sally Donovan, 10 May, 23:42

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John, I’m so sorry. And you’re right: we are and will always remain good friends.

Sarah Sawyer, 18 May, 12:55

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Really, John, did you have to turn one of our most exciting cases into such a sappy romance?

Sherlock Homes, 18 May, 22:17

YES!

John Watson, 18 May, 23:02

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I’m sorry for your loss, Dr Watson. Your wife must have been an extraordinary woman to face down a man like Adelbert Gruner. VM

Anonymous, 25 May 7:39

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Thank you. That she was indeed.

John Watson, 25 May, 8:02

~The End~


End file.
